Smoke And Mirrors
by Mardy Lass
Summary: Spoilers for 4x22. Sometimes Sam and Dean’s adventures change others for the better. When The Boys run into some familiar faces, they learn that the road paved with good intentions runs both ways. And that they should be very careful what they wish for...
1. Knock Knock

**Author's Note:**

Set during season 4. Possible spoilers for 4x22. Contains use of the F word.

Final words: _bear with me_.

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* * *

**ONE**

**Knock Knock**

.

Dean filled the mug and lifted it, turning off the bathroom tap as he poured the ice cold water into his mouth. He swished it round, making sure he sloshed it as hard as possible against every one of his teeth before bending slightly and firing it into the sink with deadly accuracy.

"You done yet?" came his younger brother's voice.

Dean sighed inwardly but refused to show his annoyance. Instead he pasted on a polite smile and straightened, looking in the mirror. He caught sight of his taller sibling behind him, leaning on the door frame.

"I'd be done a lot faster if you quit checking on me," he offered innocently.

"Well just hurry up, will you? That stuff you found on your laptop has me worried. I want to get there sometime today."

"Don't get your panties in a bunch, Sam," he sighed, putting down the mug and shaking his head slightly. He shifted his gaze to his reflection in the large mirror, putting a hand up and stroking the gingery blond goatee with satisfaction. "We'll be out of here soon enough."

"Jeez, sometimes you're so laid back you're practically horizontal," Sam accused, turning and disappearing from the doorway.

"That's what the chicks in my class at MIT said," Dean smiled to himself.

He picked up the small hand towel and pressed it to his face, making sure he was all dry before collecting his various bathroom accoutrements and pushing them back into his bag. He walked out to find Sam already at the door, his duffle over his shoulder.

"Woah - you're really ansy about this, huh?" Dean realised, dropping his toiletries into his large duffle and zipping it closed.

"Yeah. Possible possessions with people getting ganked? We gotta get there like yesterday," Sam grumped.

"You're going to get an ulcer before we arrive," Dean shrugged, swinging the duffle onto his shoulder.

Sam let his eyes roll and huffed before turning for the door. "Ready, Princess?"

"Jerk," Dean accused, opening the door and letting himself out.

Sam smiled slightly as he followed him, closing the motel door behind them. "Don't scratch my car, _bitch_," he taunted, following his older brother to the Impala.

"You know, you spend entirely too much time worrying about this thing, and not enough time eating," Dean muttered.

"You need a haircut," Sam observed in turn, unlocking the classic and getting in.

He pretended he did not see his elder brother run a hand through his generous mop of hair self-consciously. Dean pulled his floppy fringe out of his eyes before getting in the passenger side. Once inside he threw his duffle over the rear seat.

"Whatever. I just hope this town we're going to has a better wi-fi reception than this place," Dean grumped.

Sam slid the keys into the ignition, turning the old girl over and listening to the steady purr of her engine. "You college kids," he accused Dean. "Always going emo without your precious internet connection."

"Hey, you're always pretty friggin' happy when I get you research with my precious internet connection," he pointed out harshly.

Sam nodded as he reversed the Impala out of the parking lot. "You got me there. Yeah, I am," he said. "Although I still don't understand how someone who did four years at MIT doing 'logic and problem solving' still doesn't understand how Magic Fingers machines work."

"Don't start on me," Dean groused. "You know I need food to think."

"Yeah, right," Sam allowed with a small smile. He turned the car in the right direction and pointed her out onto the open road. He checked his rear view mirror, noticing his reflection. His eyes looked the same weary, determined shade of hazel green, but his hair was starting to touch his ears. _Must remember to get a haircut next chance I get_, he thought firmly. _Hate it touching my ears_.

The Impala rumbled down the quiet morning highway and Dean leaned forward, turning on the radio.

Sam's hand shot out and slapped at it.

"Dude?" Dean protested, drawing his hand back.

"Get your mits off my stereo. Driver picks the music, shotgun _shuts his cakehole_. You get me?"

"Alright," Dean shrugged, looking out of the window.

It was silent for a few miles.

"What have you got in there, anyway?" Dean asked quietly.

"Death Cab For Cutie," Sam admitted slowly.

"Aw, _man_!" Dean protested. "Always with the Death Cab For Cutie! You know, a little rock would make a nice change to--"

"Dean. Shut up," he sighed.

Dean folded his arms. "I can't believe you got the car, man. Why would Dad give it to you anyway?" he pouted.

"For the millionth time, maybe it was cos you upped and left for MIT without consulting him first!" Sam exploded.

"He would have said no!"

"Exactly!"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means perhaps you should have listened to Dad," Sam snapped.

Dean slid round in the seat slightly, looking out of his side window. He mumbled something and Sam spared him a suspicious glance.

"What was that?" he barked.

"I said, _maybe_ if you hadn't been such a prick about helping him track down Mom's killer, perhaps it wouldn't be just us two right now," Dean said slowly, his voice clear and level.

It was silent for a long moment, Sam's hands squeezing on the steering wheel.

"Ok," he allowed. "And maybe if you hadn't got him all fired up about finding the demon, and then fucked off to MIT cos you had your golden chance to _be_ someone, perhaps it wouldn't be just us two right now _either_."

The Impala rumbled along unhappily, disturbed by the turn of the conversation. She gave a few small rattles, trying to break the uneasy silence.

"Do we have to have this argument again?" Dean said quietly. But his voice sounded tired, deflated.

Sam took a deep breath, then sighed it all out. "No." He glanced around his mirrors, then over at his big brother. "No. Forget it."

"For now?"

"Look, just… What did you find out in this place in Wyoming? What's it called again?"

"Jackson Hole."

"Dean," Sam tutted. "You're making that up."

"Harrison Ford has a holiday home there! Folks go right through it to get to Yellowstone Park," he insisted.

"Whatever. Just… what's going on over there?"

The elder Winchester turned and reached over the back seat, rummaging around in his duffle. He pulled out his iPhone and sat back round. A slide and a quick tap at Notes and he was reading avidly.

"Right, right… Get this. Three people - their lives get turned around by what seems like brilliant luck, and then they up and die," he read.

"And?"

"And then the police reports mention working with these two FBI agents - they hang around, the local PD is putting it down to accidental death, but no-one can find them for a statement," he read. He looked over at Sam. "Sound suspicious enough for you?"

"Plenty," he nodded. "Ideas?"

"Well, I'm thinking it has to be demons - and maybe it's these two, like demons in disguise."

"Right," Sam snorted scathingly. "How about we get there, find them, and work out what to do with them when we have more evidence?"

"Ok Sammy, but I'm telling you," Dean warned, smiling ruefully, "something is definitely rotten in Denmark here."

"So _you_ say," Sam allowed. "I'll wait and see."

"Bet you fifty bucks," Dean grinned.

"Dean."

"Aw come on - you have to fun with this job _some_times."

"Freak," Sam tutted.

"Says you, too scared to make a bet," he teased.

"What if they're _real_ FBI agents - did you think about that?" he cried, exasperated.

"Fifty bucks says they're demons," Dean asserted.

"Fifty bucks says they're Mulder and Scully."

"Deal."

"Deal."

"So where are we headed?" Dean asked. Sam looked at him and his shaggy hair for a long moment.

"Suggestions?"

"Latest crime scene?" He fished in his pocket for his iPhone, sliding his fingers over it deftly, reading with a slight frown. "The freshest death was just this morning, it's probably still being CSI'd right now," he shrugged. He looked at his brother. "What do you think?"

"I think," Sam said slowly, "we should choose some IDs, get in the police station and take their files so far."

"Why wait around when people are dying left, right and centre?" Dean tutted. "We should go find the newest ganking, get a jump on the pertinents of the case - Mulder and Scully stroke demons could be hanging around there too," he pointed out.

"Sounds…" Sam began. His voice trailed away as he gave it serious thought, and Dean watched him mull it over, expecting his idea to get stomped on for being 'too risky' for the hundredth time. But Sam surprised him: "Sounds good." He sniffed and looked at Dean. "So where _is_ the most recent crime scene?"

"Uh - at the local garage," Dean said quickly, determined not to appear surprised.

"So let's go there then," Sam allowed.

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* * *

.

Sam climbed out of the car, locking it up behind him. Dean was already walking around the other side to meet him.

"Right - the main dude here was like three years in debt. Then suddenly, a few weeks ago, his bills are all paid off and his garage is the main place in town to spend your savings getting your cars fixed up," Dean explained.

"You're thinking crossroads deal?"

"Maybe," Dean shrugged. "Wouldn't explain why it went south so quick though."

"Hmm. So what happened to the owner?" he asked, already walking towards the main door. It had been lovingly decorated with strips of yellow Do Not Cross tape by someone who had obviously never heard of the phrase 'waste not want not'.

"He comes to work yesterday, sends all his employees home, and when they open up this morning, there he is, lying face down in his own blood," Dean nodded cheerfully.

"Nice," Sam observed. He reached the door and poked his head in.

Several police officers were standing around, notebooks or tape in hand. The hangar was a hive of activity, the sound of cameras going off, people talking, louder voices ordering others around.

"Hey you!" said a crisp voice. The Winchesters looked up as a man in a sharp suit began to walk over to the door. "You can't be in here!"

"Oh no, it's ok," Dean said quickly, pushing in front of Sam and putting his hand into the inside pocket of his black jacket. "We're--"

"Oh! Sorry gentlemen, didn't recognise you," the man said quickly. "You look different in civvies."

The boys exchanged a glance. Sam recovered first.

"Thanks. So, ah, what have you got for us?" he asked lightly.

The man, tall and lean with a swarthy look about him, beckoned the two of them to follow him.

"Well, based on your idea of chemical abuse, we decided to check for that sulphur powder you mentioned," he said eagerly. "And we found it." He led them across the hangar. "Oh, Agent Young, you got a haircut," he observed suddenly.

Dean nudged Sam, who then realised he was being spoken to.

"Me? Uh - oh, yeah," Sam said quickly. "Damn regulations, huh?"

"Yeah," the officer nodded. "Suits you. Looked a bit straggly yesterday."

"Thanks," Sam answered, puzzled. He looked at his older brother, who appeared similarly intrigued.

"Anyway - here's the sulphur and how we found it," the police officer continued. He stopped and pointed down at the small pyramid of fine, off-white powder.

Sam and Dean exchanged a glance, then crouched down together as if synchronised. Dean dipped his finger in the powder and smelt it cautiously. He nodded at Sam, shaking his hand clean of it all.

"So what does this do for your theory it was substance abuse?" the man asked enthusiastically.

The boys got to their feet hastily.

"Looks… like we were right," Dean nodded seriously. The man nodded back, apparently pleased.

"You'll want the files straight away, right?" he asked.

"Absolutely, right away," Sam nodded.

"I'll have them sent over. You are still at the Holiday Inn? Room 379?"

"Uh - yeah, exactly," Dean said quickly. "Good memory," he winked cheerfully.

"Is it my imagination, Agent Scott, or did you have shorter hair yesterday?" he asked mildly. "And… when did you find time to grow a beard?"

Dean looked confused. "Nah - I always had this. You must have been busy yesterday, just didn't remember," he bluffed.

"Right," the officer said faintly. "Well anyway - I'll leave you two agents to do what you do. Far be it for me to get in the way of the FBI," he smiled.

"You're a credit to the force," Sam beamed.

"Why, thank you," he grinned back. "You need anything else - or you want to give me any more tips - you just call me." He pushed his hand in the breast pocket of his suit jacket, pulling out his name card. "There we are. I'm always ready for more tips," he smiled.

Dean took the card slowly. "Well, if we think of anything else, we'll call you, Detective Hyver."

"Appreciate it." He nodded to them both and turned, walking away across the hangar.

Sam and Dean watched him go, biding their time. As soon as he was a safe distance away, Dean grabbed his brother's arm and pushed him round. They made rapid tracks to the hangar doors.

Once out in the midday sun they stopped and looked at each other.

"What the hell, man?" Dean demanded in a hoarse whisper. "He thinks he saw us yesterday!"

"That's not the weird thing," Sam said slowly, walking back toward the Impala. "He thinks we look different - but we must be close enough for him to think we're whoever was here yesterday."

"No shit, Sherlock," Dean observed. "I'm supposed to have short hair and no goatee, and you're supposed to have longer hair! Since when have you _ever _had long hair? What gives?"

"I don't know," Sam hissed. "Let's just set up a base of operations somewhere and figure this thing out."

"How about the Holiday Inn, room 379?" Dean put in. "That's where he thinks we're already staying!"

"Good thinking, Batman," Sam nodded readily. "Maybe a quick look in room 379 will shed some light on all this."

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* * *

.

Sam hovered near the door, watching his brother jog up the corridor toward him, a large grin on his face.

"What?" he whispered as Dean stopped next to him.

He lifted his hand to produce a hotel keycard. "Look what the maid was only too happy to give me," he grinned proudly.

Sam took it from him, eyeing him with disdain. "Is that all she was willing to give you?"

"Well, there was more on offer, but I was kind of in a rush," Dean shrugged.

Sam sighed resignedly and slid his right hand into his jacket, pulling the Taurus handgun slowly. He looked at his brother, who pulled his own nickel-plated Colt 1911 from the back of his jeans and nodded.

Sam pushed the card into the door slot. The green light blipped on and he put his hand on the door handle.

He began to push it open.

"Minute!" came a shout from inside.

But the Winchesters burst into the room, gun hands up and ready. They spread out to each side, finding their two targets and training their guns on them.

Before they froze.

Sam and Dean stared, feeling their eyes start to bulge.

"What the hell, man?" Dean whispered hoarsely from the side of his mouth. His younger brother appeared completely speechless. Dean looked back at the two men.

Frozen in the act of rolling up jeans and t-shirts, the two men just stared at them dumbly.

"They look exactly like us!" Dean managed, making sure his gun hand did not waver.

"No - not _exactly_," Sam swallowed, his Taurus starting to wobble slightly.

For the man staring back at Sam, his mouth open, did indeed look almost identical. Same surprised expression, same Oscar winning eyebrows, same barrel chest and long legs. But his hair was longer, shaggier - _messier_.

"Whoa," the other target said quietly, and the Winchesters looked over at him.

Exactly like Dean. Except his hair was much, much shorter. And while he was not quite clean shaven, he had nowhere near the amount of facial hair Dean was sporting not six feet from Sam's shoulder.

A chill went down the Winchesters' spines as they realised they were gawking at replicas of themselves.

Replicas that were, in turn, gawking back at them.

"Holy crap!" the shorter-haired Dean-alike managed hoarsely: "Shapeshifters!"

Shaggy-haired, bearded Dean gasped. "Shape--. _Damn!_ That's what I was gonna say!"

.

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_**Tee-hee! Yeah, I'm back. Told you I'd think of something to write about! All comments and suggestions welcomed. :)**_


	2. I Am, Are You?

**TWO**

**I Am, Are You?**

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"Whoa whoa whoa," short-haired Dean said quickly, dropping his jeans to the bed and spreading his hands out in front of him. "Easy there, pal, no-one's lookin' to get shot here."

Shaggy-haired Dean stared, the needle on his personal Holy Crap-ometer apparently havering around 'ten'. "He even _sounds_ like me," he hissed at his similarly spooked younger brother.

"How about you just lower those guns a little, huh?" shaggy-haired Sam said calmly. "We're not armed. You two are. And ours aren't even loaded with silver anyway."

"Silver! We're not shapeshifters!" shaggy-haired Dean cried angrily.

"Alright, alright, you're not shapeshifters," shaggy-haired Sam allowed. "Who are you then?"

"Who the hell are you two?" he shot back. "Explain the fucked-up mirror images!"

The two unarmed men looked at each other meaningfully.

"He's got a potty-mouth on _him_," short-haired Dean observed quietly.

"Dean," his accomplice tutted.

"Dean? Your name's _Dean_?" shaggy-haired Dean demanded.

"Ye-ah," he allowed slowly, looking back at him. "And you are?"

"Dean!"

"Riiiiight," short-haired Dean nodded with a slowness born of unease. He turned to look back at his own brother. "Any other way our day could get worse?"

"Wait wait wait," short-haired Sam stated suddenly. The room looked at him. He shut the door behind him before waving his Taurus at the strange pair, gesturing them to the furthest bed. They complied, sitting down and sharing a warning glance between them that chilled his soul. "Right. Names."

"He's Sam. I'm Dean," short-haired Dean replied curtly.

"Surname?" short-haired Sam barked.

"Winchester." He paused, watching this news sink in. "You?"

"Sam and Dean. Winchester," armed Sam nodded. He stole a glance at his brother, who was watching them with his bearded chin hanging slightly open. He looked back at the two men. "Age?"

"Thirty," Dean admitted.

"Him?" short-haired Sam urged, nodding at his long-haired replica.

"Dude, you never ask a lady her age," short-haired Dean tutted.

His Sam let the back of his hand fly out and slap into his brother's arm. "Twenty-six," he replied.

Short-haired Sam nodded slowly. "Us too. What car you got?" he asked his look-alike sharply.

"Me? I don't have a--" he began.

"The car's mine," short-haired Dean butted in. "'67 Chevy Impala. She's in the parking lot. And if you've so much as scratched her, I don't care _who_ you are, I'll ram that gun of yours so far up your ass you'll be chewing with the trigger," he growled.

"Dean," his brother hissed.

He looked at his shaggy haired brother, then back at the neat and tidy replica. "So what now? You gonna shoot us?"

"N-no," short-haired Sam allowed, letting his gun drop slowly.

"Sam!" shaggy-haired Dean chided. "We don't know what these two are! They could be--"

"Be what?" his Sam demanded, turning to look at him. "I don't know about you, man, but I am _not_ shooting what could be my own double."

"Fine," shaggy Dean grumped, clearly unhappy. He pushed the safety back on his Colt, letting it dangle by his side. "But I say we test everyone here for the obvious."

"Like what?" shaggy Sam asked warily.

"Salt. Silver. Holy water. The usual," shaggy Dean stated, eyeing him suspiciously.

Short-haired Dean nodded. "That would answer a few questions."

"Everyone willing to do this?" shaggy-haired Sam asked, looking at his double, and then the bearded version of his brother. There were shrugs and nods all round. "Well then…" He went to his duffle, fishing around until he found a can of salt and a small flask. "Who's first?"

"Can I see that?" short-haired Sam said slowly.

Shaggy Sam put his hands out, handing the salt to his replica. He, in turn, studied it before handing the salt can to his long-haired Dean.

"Check it," he instructed. He looked back at shaggy Sam, putting his hand out for the water flask. But everyone was watching shaggy Dean. He simply unscrewed the salt can, shaking it about before tipping a little into the palm of his hand. He studied it, sniffed it, then shrugged and dipped his tongue in it.

"Salt," he confirmed. He handed the can back to his younger brother. "Well I guess that's me tested for salt allergies," shaggy Dean commented. "Pass me the water there, Chewie."

Shaggy haired Sam blinked at him, then handed him the flask. Shaggy Dean took it and didn't even hesitate. He flipped it open and tipped it up, drinking a few sips.

"Tastes like it's been in there too long," he observed, sniffing and putting the lid back on. He looked up at everyone staring at him. "What?"

"Give me that," short-haired Sam tutted, swigging some himself before giving it back to shaggy Sam. He unscrewed the salt can and poured a little into his palm. "There, see?" he pointed out. "We're not demons, ghosts or slugs. Your turn."

Shaggy Sam took the water and salt, repeating his replica's actions to show his salted palm to the others. He sipped the water before handing everything to short-haired Dean. He unfolded unimpressed arms and repeated the procedure.

"So then," short-haired Dean announced, throwing the flask and the salt back at his brother's duffle, "none of us is a demon or an assed-out impersonator spirit. Perfect. Silver?"

Short-haired Sam reached into his pocket and produced a small knife with inscriptions on the blade.

"What's that?" short-haired Dean asked suspiciously.

"Silver. Charmed silver," short-haired Sam replied. He flipped the blade into his hand and proferred the handle to his double. "See for yourself."

"Right," shaggy Sam muttered. He took the knife and cut at his thumb just enough for red blood to seep out. "See?" He handed the knife to his brother, who also nicked a thumb before handing the blade to his own replica.

Shaggy Dean and short-haired Sam repeated the blood-letting, looking up to find short-haired Dean offering his own knife at his replica.

"What?" shaggy Dean asked.

"How do I know your knife is really silver?" short-haired Dean pointed out. "We used yours, now you can use ours."

Shaggy Dean looked to Sam. Short-haired Sam nodded and Dean turned back to the blade, taking it and cutting his thumb. He gave the knife to short-haired Sam, who cut his own thumb before handing it back.

"Right then," shaggy Sam observed. "We're all real. Now what?"

Shaggy Dean gestured to his double with his bearded chin. "You, Dean-alike," he said gruffly. "Where's your dad?"

"He died," short-haired Dean allowed. "A few years back."

"Heart attack?"

"No! Demon!" Dean protested.

Shaggy Dean put a hand up in surrender. "Alright, don't get your panties twisted," he protested, in a voice scarily like the one his double had just used.

His double ran a hand through his short hair and blew out a sigh. "Look - where did you two spring from? How long you been around?"

"Thirty years," shaggy-haired Dean said tightly. "Can we skip to the bit where you tell us how you got here and look exactly like us?"

"Don't know if you've noticed," shaggy-haired Sam said suddenly, "but we _don't_ look exactly like you."

Silence winged its way into the room, perching rather precariously over the proceedings and watching with an uncomfortable eye.

"Let's start with the basics," shaggy Sam offered unexpectedly, sending the silence to the floor in a thousand tiny pieces. "How did you get here?"

"In Sam's car," shaggy-haired Dean admitted.

"_Sam's_ car?" short-haired Dean prompted. "Where's yours?"

"I ain't got a _car_," shaggy Dean spluttered. "Don't need one. Dad gave him his Impala."

"Your dad did what!" short-haired Dean protested. "Why the hell didn't he give it to you!"

"That is a long, sad story," shaggy Dean sighed regretfully.

The four of them eyed each other, raging discomfort filling the room until short-haired Dean threw his hands up in despair.

"Right. This is all too nuts - no-one's gonna say it, so I am," he growled. "We're doubles. Mirror images. Not just us, but our lives - mostly."

"Something's really…" shaggy haired Sam began slowly.

"Weird?" his brother finished for him.

"Freaky," the replica Sams admitted together.

"It's giving me the creeps," both Deans muttered. They stopped short and looked at each other, their faces mirrors of alarm.

"So now what?" short-haired Sam asked quietly. It was silent in the room for a long moment.

"Now… We work out how there are two of each of us - and why." Shaggy Sam sat slowly. "I'm guessing you two are hunters?"

They shared a knowing glance. "Yeah," short-haired Sam nodded. "We saw reports of what we thought was demons getting ganked and came to investigate."

"Yeah - job's nearly finished, fellas," short-haired Dean nodded. "Sorry - you're a day too late."

"You're Agents Young and Scott?" shaggy-haired Dean guessed.

"Yup," Dean confirmed. "How'd you know about that?"

"We were at the crime scene just now," short-haired Sam replied. "We were trying to get a jump on the investigation."

"Well it's all taken care of, thanks for your interest," he said firmly. "So let me get this straight - your - er - Sam's got the Impala, your dad's also dead, I'm guessing from a heart attack, and you go round the country killing demons and trying to stop the apocalypse."

"The what?" shaggy Dean asked innocently.

Short-haired Dean sighed, nodding to himself. "Figures." He looked up at the copy of himself. "So… you had any… ah… near-death experiences?" he asked carefully.

"Only like a tonne, man," he heaved. "Every damn day. You?"

"You could say that, yeah," he admitted uneasily. "Nothing too… close for comfort?"

"Not really - oh, hang on," shaggy Dean said quickly, snapping his fingers. "There was that time in Florida. Got my ass thrown from a third-storey window."

"What was it? Demon? Vampire?"

"The waitress' mom," shaggy-haired Dean shrugged. The pair of opposite Winchesters sagged slightly in disapproval. "We don't come up against many demons these days. Guess there aren't many left."

"Aren't many left?" short-haired Dean demanded. "How'd you work that out?"

"We had this big thing a while back - a door to Hell almost got opened. We stopped it," short-haired Sam allowed.

"You stopped it?" short-haired Dean demanded, surprised, but his shaggy-haired brother put his hand up to butt in.

"And then?" he asked with trepidation. "You stopped it, and then?"

"Look, you might find this crazy, but…" short-haired Sam paused, staring at his double. "Actually, you might not…"

"You died," short-haired Dean put in. "Didn't you?"

"Yeah, I did," short-haired Sam admitted. "And then my idiot brother sold his soul to bring me back. Don't go there."

But short-haired Dean snorted with amusement, running hands over his face. Eventually he looked up at his bearded counterpart. "And you got given a year?"

"No, actually… Ten," he shrugged.

"Ten? _You_ got _ten_?" short-haired Dean spluttered.

"Yeah. Just like everyone else. But Sam here… took him over a year, but he got me off. We found the demon--"

"Some chick called Lilith?" short-haired Dean interrupted.

"Yeah - how'd you know?"

"Lucky guess," Dean ground out.

"So yeah, we found her, we ganked her, job done," bearded Dean shrugged. "You?"

"Ah… We kinda went another route," short-haired Dean managed lightly, not looking at his brother.

"But you did the same thing? You sold your soul for your Sam?" short-haired Sam asked quietly.

"Yeah, I did," short-haired Dean nodded, looking at the carpet. There was an uncomfortable silence.

"And then?" short-haired Sam dared.

"Well, put it this way, my deal was a little… less fair than the one your brother got," he allowed.

"Why?" shaggy Dean asked quietly.

The two Deans looked at each other for a long moment.

"Demons, man," short-haired Dean allowed eventually. "They get all riled up when you've been hunting them down for the last few years. They take it personally."

"So… You two mainly hunt demons?" short-haired Sam put in.

"It's all we fight these days," short-haired Dean sighed. "Them and angels."

"Angels? _Psshhhtt_," his long-haired copy hissed dismissively, "Everyone knows there's no such thing as _angels_."

"Riiiiiight," short-haired Dean nodded sarcastically.

"Look, this is all very educational, but it doesn't explain why there are two pairs of us - _if_ that's what we really are," short-haired Sam interrupted.

"And why our lives have gone so differently," shaggy-haired Sam muttered.

His short-haired elder brother looked at him knowingly. "Alright, what is it?" he sighed.

"What's what?" shaggy Sam protested.

The armed Winchesters stood in silence, watching uneasily.

"You got that '_I know what it is, but he ain't going to like it_' look on your face," short-haired Dean allowed quietly. His younger brother looked at him steadily, then up at the two copies watching them.

"Maybe," he allowed.

"Well then spit it out," he snapped irritably. "I don't know about you, but I ain't getting any younger."

"Dean--"

"Sammy, what is it?" he demanded.

The copies blinked in apparent surprise, then shared a small glance. They looked back at shaggy Sam with interest.

"Well… One of us two pairs is a copy, right?" he offered.

"I doubt we could all have grown up so exactly the same," his short-haired replica put in helpfully.

"So… at some point, something happened to one pair to create a second one." He sniffed and looked at his older brother. "I think, the more we find out about each other, the more chance we have of finding out how."

"Trickster," short-hair Dean said immediately. "Siren. Shapeshifter. Hell, could even be a demon game," he hazarded.

"Then we have to start eliminating possibilities," shaggy Sam shrugged. He looked up at the two Winchesters still on their feet. "You need to tell us about yourselves."

"Now wait a minute," shaggy Dean interrupted, and they looked up at him. "Why do you think _we're_ the ones who shouldn't be here? How do you know it ain't you two?"

Shaggy Sam opened his mouth, but it was neat Sam who put his hand up. "Dean. Let me handle this," he said firmly.

The motel room owning Winchesters recognised it for what it was: an order. Short-haired Dean looked up at his shaggy counterpart, watching the familiar need to protest die and leave his bearded face. Instead he shrugged.

"Whatever," he shrugged, and the mixture of tacit obedience and slight air of resignation surprised his audience of one. Short-haired Dean filed it away for future reference.

"What's the earliest thing you remember?" shaggy Sam asked.

"What's the earliest thing _you_ remember?" shaggy Dean shot back, but when shaggy Sam looked at him, he realised the two Deans were watching each other.

"Me?" short-haired Dean prompted. The double Deans eyed one another with vague distrust. Short-haired Dean looked at shaggy Sam slowly, then back at the neat copy of his taller brother, thinking. Eventually he ran a tongue over a dry lip and straightened himself a little. "Running away from a burning house, carrying you. I mean _him_," he amended, gesturing to his own shaggy brother with his head. "I was… four, nearly five."

"You too?" shaggy Dean asked.

Short-haired Dean opened his mouth.

The motel door splintered inward. All four Winchesters leapt further into the room, reaching for weapons without even thinking.

A tall young man entered the room, jeans and Bad Company t-shirt clean and intact, despite his apparent destruction of the door. He stood just inside the room, smirking at the four men. He raised his hands to his hips, appraising them all and the four weapons pointed at him.

"Sam Winchester," he said, fixing his gaze on the shorter haired version. "And… Sam Winchester!" he grinned, turning slightly to look at the shaggy double.

"Who are you?" short-haired Sam managed first.

"Let's just say," he said with a satisfied smile, "I've come to clean house."

.

.


	3. This Is Not What I Signed Up For

**THREE**

**This Is Not What I Signed Up For**

.

"How do you know me?" shaggy Sam demanded of the man.

He blinked, his eyes coming up black. "Demon, Sam. Of course I know you. I know everything you did, everything you thought, everything you dreamed about while your big brother was roasting and not playing well with others, like a good little Hell-bitch."

Shaggy Dean looked confused, his short haired brother also showing signs of befuddlement.

"What do you want?" short-haired Dean breathed, and if the others looked as though they weren't surprised and daunted by his tone, it was only because they were more worried about the demon in front of them.

"Sam _first_. He's been a very, _very_ naughty boy," the man tutted.

"What?" short-haired Sam gasped. "Which one of us?"

"Shut your trap, trespasser," the demon snarled. He looked at shaggy Sam. "You, on the other hand, have some explaining to do - don't you?"

Short-haired Dean's gun hand didn't waver but he risked a glance at his brother. Shaggy Sam appeared innocently confused.

"Sam?" short-haired Dean warned. "What's he talking about?"

"I have no idea," shaggy Sam said clearly.

"Is this a Ruby thing?" short-haired Dean asked of the newcomer.

"Ruby?" the demon echoed thoughtfully. His eyes ranged around the ceiling before he appraised them all again. "Never heard of her. --Really, boys," he tutted. "Do you really think you can kill me with these toys?"

Short-haired Dean opened his mouth, but paused as he heard his own voice answering from behind him. He hid the chill that went up his spine at the sound of himself speaking.

"Nope. Not kill."

There was a single shot. The demon jerked and hissed in anger.

"What did you--!" He coughed and jerked again, unsteady on his feet.

Short-haired Dean backed up, glancing at his shaggy replica as the demon lost his footing and plummeted to the carpet headfirst, writhing and crying out in pain.

"What the hell was that?" short-haired Dean demanded.

Shaggy Dean gave his nickel-plated Colt 1911 a warm glance before tucking it in the back of his jeans.

"Water and salt round. _Holy_ water and salt round," he shrugged at his short-haired double. "What, you don't have them?" He stepped round everyone to reach down to the coughing, jerking man on the carpet. "Little help?" he asked. "Sam?"

Short-haired Sam was already pushing the bed to one side, searching for something in the duffle that he had mistaken for his.

The demon bucked abruptly, pushing shaggy Dean off balance. He sprang up and grabbed the Winchester's shoulders. Shaggy Dean struggled to reach his gun. The demon yanked and tossed him against the wall.

The room turned on the man but he opened his mouth. Black smoke rushed up and out, billowing round the room. It buffeted the four men until it appeared to give up and race toward the open door.

It flowed out and disappeared, leaving the four of them staring after it.

"What the _fuck_," shaggy Dean said a little unclearly, trying to get to his hands and knees on the carpet, "was that all about?"

Short-haired Dean crossed the carpet and grasped the jacket over his shoulder, helping him to his feet. The fallen man looked up gratefully, surprised to see a neat version of himself watching him.

"You ok - er - Dea-- uhm, kid?" short-haired Dean managed.

He swallowed and nodded, patting at himself to check he still had ribs. Short-haired Dean let go of his shoulder, turning to look at the two Sams.

"Ok, we're blown," he judged. "We get out of here now, and re-think this whole thing."

"Are we all on the same side then?" shaggy Dean asked carefully. "Sounds to me like your Sam there fucked this whole thing up somewhere along the line."

Short-haired Dean turned on him with sudden fire. "You keep your piehole shut about stuff you know nothing about!" he snapped, pointing at his shaggy double. "Now we move out of here _now_, and we hole up till we can work out what the _hell_ just happened!" He waited, expecting the Dean Winchester in front of him to stick out his chin and tap into the adrenaline to start the brawl he could feel coming.

But instead the shaggy version of himself looked at short-haired Sam. "Dude?" he asked carefully.

Short-haired Sam looked at everyone in the room slowly. "He's right," he allowed, looking at his bearded brother with a single nod. "We ship out, we find somewhere to bunk. We cover our tracks and we think this thing out."

"Right," shaggy Sam nodded. "I suggest we split up."

"You got that right," short-haired Dean muttered to himself, already turning to the bed and his own duffle.

"No - two Sams, two Deans," shaggy Sam said quickly.

"What?" two Deans protested in stereo, before glancing at each other.

"Like uh - Dean said, this seems to be something I did," shaggy Sam managed uncomfortably, looking at his double. "He called you a trespasser. He knows something, and we need to figure out what it might be and why he's here - and I need my double to do it. You two - uhm - Deans - get food, meet us at the next motel over."

"Yeah, cos he'll never think of looking _there_," shaggy Dean put in, and if sarcasm had been cement he would have had enough to drag an identified informant to the bottom of the river.

Short-haired Dean pinned him with a warning glance that made the longer haired Dean stand back one quickly. "You're with me, wise-ass," the shorter haired of them instructed, pointing at the door.

Shaggy Dean looked at his younger brother. Short-haired Sam nodded confidently, and Dean turned without a word, heading for the empty doorway.

Short-haired Dean looked back at his shaggy brother. "You, watch yourself. Don't do anything stupid," he said clearly, not even looking at the short-haired version of Sam Winchester before he hauled his duffle over his shoulder and headed out of the motel room. He found shaggy Dean waiting for him, looking troubled. "Right, come on Dea--. Ah - Dea--. Kid," neat Dean managed. He grimaced to himself. "Gotta find another name to call you," he shivered, following his shaggy-haired counterpart down the hallway quickly.

The two Sams looked at each other.

"He always give you orders like that?" short haired Sam asked quietly.

"Less than he used to," shaggy Sam admitted. "But pretty much. I notice… your brother looks to you for orders," he fished carefully.

Short-haired Sam ran his hands over his face. "Nowadays. He didn't always," he sighed. "Times have changed. _We've_ changed."

"How?" shaggy Sam asked intently.

"Motel?" short-haired Sam managed.

"Motel," shaggy haired Sam nodded. "At least you got a car."

.

* * *

.

The Impala rumbled along the road, purring in a rather bemused way. Slightly confused as to why her usual driver was gripping the wheel a little tightly, she was more perplexed as to why he was _also_ in the passenger seat, sliding his hands over the dash in front of him.

"Sweet," he breathed appreciatively, grinning with childish abandon. He sat back at last, scrubbing a hand through the long bristles down the side of his chin. "Always loved this car."

"She's mine," the neater Dean said automatically. He tutted at himself and then shook his head. He spared his passenger an uncomfortable glance. "So," he began bravely.

Bearded Dean looked back at him. "So?"

"So… Sam's in charge, huh?" he managed, looking back at the road.

"Pretty much," shaggy Dean nodded. He swept his floppy fringe from his eyes casually, making the other Dean look at him again.

"You could get that cut."

"You could let yours grow out," he observed.

They looked at each other. It held for a second before they snorted in amusement and looked out at the road in a manoeuvre that could not have been more synchronised if rehearsed.

"What I don't get is why your Sam's got your car," short-haired Dean said carefully.

"It was never mine. Dad gave it to him," shaggy Dean shrugged. "I guess he was mad enough. I did kinda piss him off a few times."

"Really?" Dean muttered. "Like how?"

"Well… I don't know how it is for you and your brother, but… Well, I remember carrying Sam out of our house, too. There was a fire. Mom died. It was just me, Dad and Sam," he allowed, looking at his hands in his lap.

"Sounds familiar."

"Yeah? Did you spend your childhood learning to hunt monsters too?" shaggy Dean asked bitterly.

"Still do," Dean sighed. "There's always something new to learn how to kill."

Shaggy Dean looked at him speculatively. "That's what Dad always said." He looked out of his side window. "So… We had our arguments, sure. We butted heads quite a few times. The last straw was… Well, me and him were itching for this demon. He thought it was the one who burnt our house down, killed Mom."

"And?" short-haired Dean demanded, perhaps a little too eagerly.

"And… We did all the tracking, all the planning. I was… I just wanted to kill it, y'know?" he allowed with a small, nervous smile.

"I think I do," neat Dean sniffed.

Shaggy Dean appraised him slowly. "Yeah, I think you do." He paused, thinking, it seemed. "So this thing between me and Dad was getting worse - I didn't want to be hunting forever. The way I saw it, it was just about the demon that killed Mom. Once it was gone, it was gonna be all over for me."

"What happened?"

"Well… We did the planning. We caught it, trapped it, and I killed it," he shrugged. "Man, that was the most pissed I'd _ever_ seen the old man," he breathed.

He fell to silence, and the car reverberated with the engine - and the occasional squeak that reminded both Dean Winchesters that time was still passing.

"Why? If you killed it, he should have been happy," short-haired Dean pointed out.

"The old man was never happy. At least, not with me," he replied quietly. "It was always 'look after Sam', and 'your job is your brother', and 'this is the life'." He snorted with derision. "Well it wasn't gonna be _my_ life forever. He was so angry, so absolutely fuckin' _seething_ that I killed it and he didn't." He paused, running a dry tongue over his lower lip in regret. "Some days I wish he had."

Short-haired Dean looked at him, noticing the tell-tale nostril flare and angry eyes that told him only too well how his duplicate had taken it all.

"What if he had?" he fished. "What would it have changed?"

"We wouldn't have argued about how I was good for nothin' except being Sam's personal bodyguard, and then I wouldn't have accepted that scholarship and left for MIT," he said with false cheer. "I wouldn't have spent four years studying, drinking, getting laid, passing modules and courses without even trying cos I got the highest test scores the exam dude had ever seen."

"Whoa whoa whoa!" Dean protested. He rammed his foot on the brake. The car screeched to a halt. He yanked her into Park. "_You_ went to MIT?"

"Yeah," shaggy Dean shrugged. "Where did you go?"

The two Deans stared at each other, able to read the other's faces with alarming accuracy.

"You didn't, did you?" shaggy Dean concluded.

"But you _did_," short-haired Dean gasped. "You! You went to MIT!'

"Yeah, I did," he said slowly, baffled. "What of it?"

"Well bang me seven ways from Sunday," Dean hissed, shaking his head and looking out of the driver's side window. He put the car into Drive and coasted to the gravel by the side of the road. He cut the engine and sat back angrily.

"What?" shaggy Dean pressed. "What about it?"

"Nothin'. It's just…" He took a deep breath, letting it all out slowly. "It's just… my whole life, everyone's… Nah, forget it," he dismissed.

"Let me guess. Everyone told you from day one how stupid you were, that Sam was the clever one?"

They stared at each other.

"Something like that," he nodded dimly.

"Yeah well. Sam got invited to Stanford. He didn't go," shaggy Dean replied, his voice quiet.

"Why?"

"Cos… he thought he would be leaving Dad behind. So he stayed. I finished my four years, graduated with honours, had no place else to go, went home." He looked at his hand, on the car seat next to him. "Home. Yeah right. I met back up with Dad and Sam, still travelling around, still hunting monsters. Sam was kinda… he was glad to see me, but… I don't know. It was like he was different. He just… The only thing he does these days is find stuff to kill."

"What about Dad? --I mean, _your_ Dad?"

"For months he didn't really talk to me, other than to get me to pass the salt. Then one day he tells Sam to go get us some coffee. And he tells me… He tells me he's proud of me. Cos after he gets Sam to give up hunting, the three of us can have a normal life, and I'll be the one who graduated from MIT a winner." He shook his head slowly.

Short-haired Dean risked a thoughtful tongue over his lips. "And then?"

"And then… He told me he'd talk to Sam, he'd get him to give it all up. We'd finally be normal people again, like we hadn't been since I was four." He paused, his face furrowed. "And then…" He sighed painfully.

"Him and Sam argued?" neat Dean offered.

But shaggy-haired Dean looked at him quickly. "No. They hardly ever argued," he said innocently.

Short-haired Dean blinked, surprised. "Oh."

"No, they… Dad said he'd talk to him and everything would be ok. But… That night."

Short-haired Dean looked at him quickly, sensing the buried hurt in the replica.

Shaggy Dean cleared his throat slowly. "It was a over a year ago. Feels like last week." He took a deep breath, letting it out gradually. "That night he… I was in the other room, I was cleaning weapons," he said faintly. "I didn't know, he didn't call for help or… anything…"

Silence descended upon the car. Short-haired Dean waited, realising he was holding his breath.

"I went back in to ask if it was worth cleaning the shotguns - cos if we were gonna give it up anyway, why bother, right?" he asked weakly. He sniffed to himself, turning his head to look out of the passenger window slightly. "And he was… ah…"

He put a hand up, wiping it across his mouth steadily, hoping his short-haired counterpart couldn't see the weakness in his face. He cleared his throat professionally and his voice came back stronger.

"I called an ambulance, but… ah…" He sniffed again. "It was a huge heart attack. Major."

Stillness took the car. Not a thing moved. Not a thing dared. The silence became unbearable.

Short-haired Dean felt his hand rising from his lap. It landed on the shoulder of the strange man who looked and sounded so much like him.

"At least you were there," he managed gruffly.

Shaggy Dean didn't look at him. He just nodded at the passenger window dumbly.

"And he knew you were, right?"

Again, shaggy Dean simply nodded. Short-haired Dean patted his shoulder carefully.

"There _are_ worse ways to go. You should know that."

The silence dragged on. Eventually, Dean let his hand drop and looked out of his driver's window.

"And that's why I don't really give a shit for all this any more," shaggy Dean muttered suddenly.

Dean turned his head and looked at him. "What?"

"Mom's killer is dead. Dad is dead. Sam never got the speech about giving it up, from the only person he would have obeyed. I can't leave Sam to it, he'll die without help in his gig. So here I am, an MIT grad with no future and no fucking life, cos there was never really going to be anything else for our family, was there?" he breathed bitterly. "You don't need to be a rocket scientist to figure _that_ out."

Short-haired Dean took a deep breath. "It could be worse," he offered.

"How? How could it be worse?" shaggy Dean demanded. "I'm fuckin' sick of all this hunting crap, man! This is not what I was supposed to do!"

Neat Dean shook his head slightly. "Believe me, you think you got it bad," he interrupted, "but there's always someone who's got it worse."

"Oh yeah? And that's you, is it?" shaggy Dean demanded, a little petulantly.

Dean leaned forward and started the car. He took the gear stalk, sliding the Impala into Drive again. "I tell you what, man," he said slowly, with an air of regret that shaggy Dean recognised all too well, "I am getting too old for all this crap."

He blew out a weary sigh and rejoined the empty road, heading for the diner and much, _much_ needed caffeine.

.

* * *

.

An identical Impala _chug-chug_ged her way into the motel parking lot, short-haired Sam bringing her to a stop and pushing her into Park. He flicked off the engine.

"So we have a few details swapped around, but no serious detours until Dean's deal," shaggy Sam concluded from the passenger seat.

"Seems that way," short-haired Sam nodded. "Do you know how it went down for your Dean?"

"No idea. I mean - he's not exactly the talkative type," shaggy Sam allowed tightly.

"You got any ideas about how that deal did this to us? This is normally Dean's department."

"Dean?" shaggy Sam ventured. "He's the brains of your outfit?"

"Well yeah," short-haired Sam shrugged, as if it should be obvious. "I mean, I know my way round a computer but at the end of the day, he's the one who comes up with all this stuff. The guy is a walking encyclopaedia of--"

"Weirdness?" he interrupted.

"How'd you know I was going to say that?"

"Cos that's what _my_ brother called _me_," shaggy Sam said slowly.

There was an uncomfortable silence.

"Are we just… like… mirror images?"

"It's _kinda_ like mirror images," shaggy Sam allowed, "but the mirrors have got crossed. Like I'm looking in Dean's and he's looking in mine - uh - ours."

"Right," short-haired Sam allowed gingerly. "I did notice… Well the hair got swapped," he said, and a small smile escaped.

"It's not just that, is it?" shaggy Sam pressed. "You're in charge - you got the car. And what does your brother do?"

"He… treads water," Sam sighed.

"What? Why?"

"Because… Actually? I don't know the 'because' bit. I don't know what's wrong with him, man. He wasn't always like this. But after Dad died and he'd already graduated--"

"He graduated? From where?" shaggy Sam demanded. "Stanford?"

"No," short-haired Sam smiled. "I was offered a place at Stanford. Never went. Dean went to MIT."

"Dean went to MIT?" Sam cried, his voice loud with disbelief.

"I know, unbelievable, right?" he grinned. "But that's my brother. Looks like your typical blond air-head, but he can get you any research, any material, any gadget to work." He stopped himself, but shaggy Sam recognised a healthy dollop of pride in his counterpart's smile.

"So… Something happened around the time of Dean's deal that we need to figure out," shaggy Sam said, shaking his head. "Something tells me it's all do with that."

"Ok," neat Sam shrugged. "So we need those two back here, so we can go over that night. Let's get inside and get a room, booby-trap it for demon visitors, and just sit down somewhere I don't feel like we're part of some whacked-out conspiracy."

.

.

* * *

**_Confused? You will be. Questions? Then just call 1-800-WAIT-FOR-NEXT-CHAPTER._**

**_:)_**


	4. No Angels, Dark Or Otherwise

**FOUR**

**No Angels, Dark Or Otherwise**

.

Mostly shaven, short-haired and considerably more understanding Dean opened the motel room door. His left hand grasped bags as he held the door open behind him. Shaggy haired Dean followed, carrying a cardboard carrier containing four coffee cups. He closed the door behind him.

The two Sams looked up from their respective places on the two beds.

"So who's winning?" short-haired Dean asked cheerfully.

"Winning what?" both Sams asked innocently. They looked at each other, a little spooked but also willing to smile it off.

"The puppy eyes championship," short-haired Dean smiled.

Shaggy Dean gave half a guffaw before it turned into a polite cough. Short-haired Dean turned and spared him a glance that was supposed to have frozen all thoughts of amusement from his counterpart. However, as bearded Dean's eyes met his, there was no ignoring the complete understanding and malicious enjoyment that was shared between them in a nanosecond. Not knowing whether to be suckered in by the familiarity or disturbed, short-haired Dean found himself frowning in bewilderment.

"We were trying to work out how there are two pairs of us," short-haired Sam informed him politely. A little _too_ politely, shaggy haired Dean realised with more amusement.

"Well don't forget, we got more demons in this town too," short-haired Dean warned, opening the bags and looking inside. "You two gonna eat these or just play with them?"

"What is it?" the two Sams began. They stopped and looked at each other.

The two Deans, without realising it, broadcast an identical beaming smile. Short-haired Dean cleared his throat.

"Cheeseburgers. Real ones," he informed them both. He waited, saw the hesitation on their faces, and nodded. He turned to the other Dean, handing him a bag. "More for us."

"Cool," shaggy Dean grinned, taking the bag enthusiastically.

"I'm sorry," shaggy haired Sam said suddenly, getting to his feet, "but is this not freaking anyone else out?"

"What?" both Deans asked, full of innocence.

"This!" shaggy Sam continued, waving his arms out. "Everyone sounding so much alike! Doesn't it creep you out?"

Short-haired Sam's eyebrows went through a tortuous flipping routine that told the room all they needed to know about his feelings of unease.

The two Deans, however, simply bit into their burgers in an almost rehearsed manoeuvre.

"A little, but I'll live," short-haired Dean managed through his mouthful. He looked back at the other Dean. "You?"

"Nuh-uh," he mouthed through his burger. "Actually? Makes a change from people not knowing what the fuck I'm talking about."

Short-haired Dean just blinked at him. "You always this free with the colourful words?"

"Who are you, my dad?" shaggy Dean shot back, albeit very amused. Short-haired Dean blinked again, this time in bemusement, before shaking his head attacking his burger again.

"Well it's giving me the willies," shaggy Sam admitted, with a truckload of discomfort. "Look, we think this has something to do with Dean's deal. We just have to figure out what."

Short-haired Dean and shaggy Sam turned with purpose to look at the bearded Winchester. He noticed and paused in his chewing.

"What?" he managed from the side of his mouth.

"Tell us what happened when you made your deal, ass-hat," short-haired Dean urged.

"Simple," shaggy haired Dean offered, swallowing his mouthful of burger and pausing before attacking the next part. "I summoned the bitch, we haggled, I reminded her I got ten years like everyone, she weren't gonna take it - till I had her on the small print."

"The small print?" short haired Dean prompted, turning to look at him.

"The small print," shaggy Dean shrugged. "Like, black eyed demons are not authorised to negotiate or alter the terms of a Crossroads contract. Only red eyed demons can do that. And she wasn't a red eyed demon," he winked knowingly. "She had to give me the standard terms and conditions, exactly as they were printed on the wrapper."

"Terms and conditions?" short-haired Dean demanded clearly, prepared to be even more impressed than he already was.

"Yeah. Seriously, you got to think carefully about them contracts they offer - they read like wiring diagrams for the Impala's fusebox."

Short-haired Dean looked at his burger but suddenly found it lacking in merit. He swallowed with difficulty and put it down, leaning a hand on the high bureau under the television, pinning his double with a look that could have gutted quite a few fish without dislodging a single scale.

"Dean - kid - whatever," he amended before a chill clutched at his voice, "just what _were_ these terms and conditions?"

Shaggy Dean stopped chewing and looked up at him with raw innocence, making short haired Dean wince on the inside. _ I haven't been that innocent since I was 26,_ he sighed. "Well?" he pressed.

"Same as always," shaggy Dean offered. "She gives me what I want - Sam alive and well again, no ill effects, exactly as he was before, yadda yadda yadda, and I get ten years to live."

There was a silence. Short-haired Dean looked at his feet.

"What?" shaggy haired Dean asked quietly, but his voice was still too innocent for his considerably neater double to look at him.

"And… the bit about forfeiting the deal if you try to get out of it?" short-haired Dean breathed.

"Doesn't apply to standard contracts," shaggy Dean said happily, biting into his burger again.

"Doesn't apply to--. _What the hell, man_?" short-haired Dean demanded angrily. The room jumped and looked at him, worried. "What do you mean, 'doesn't apply'? How the hell does it not apply!"

"Cos… Cos it's a standard ten year contract?" shaggy Dean offered. He looked at the double of himself and that of his brother, staring at him with hurt and rage. "What? It doesn't."

"He's right," short-haired Sam added. "It took us over a year, but we tracked down the owner and killed it. Dean's free of his deal, and I'm still here."

Shaggy Sam turned to look at him. "And you're… exactly as you were before?"

"Exactly," short-haired Sam shrugged. "Why?"

"No… headaches, no weird dreams, nothing?" he pressed.

"Nothing, why?"

"No reason," shaggy Sam muttered. He looked up at his own brother slowly. "Looks like we got the crappy end of the deal here. You sure _we're_ not the doubles?"

Short-haired Dean rolled his unfinished burger up in the wrapper and tossed it at the bin half-heartedly.

"I don't know any more," he sighed.

Shaggy Dean swallowed and his head tilted. "Your deal," he said quietly, and his short-haired double looked up at him. "What did you get?"

"I got some demon skank who bargained me down to one year," he allowed. "And there was a special kick in the ass - I wasn't allowed to find a way out."

"What?" shaggy Dean demanded, his eyes bulging. "What a bitch!"

"That's kinda what I said. Eventually."

"And you still took the deal?" shaggy Dean demanded. "That's why you went to Hell and all that shit you were spouting in the car? You took a one year death sentence - and you _knew_?"

"Yeah! I did!" short-haired Dean shouted suddenly, and the room went quiet. "What would you have done?"

Shaggy Dean blew out a sigh, shaking his head. "Probably the same thing you did." He paused, thinking it over. "But… fuck me," he muttered under his breath.

_No, you wouldn't_, short-haired Dean thought glumly. _Cos you were someone, you had a life, an opportunity to go your own way. Yeah, Sam dying would have tortured you, but you would have gotten over it. Cos you had friends, a life. A choice._

He heard a sigh and found himself turning to look at the shorter haired Sam. He was watching him with more understanding than he should have had, given the circumstances.

"Anyways," shaggy haired Sam allowed, and everyone managed to look somewhere innocent. "Dean's right - we still have demons to find in this town. And… it wouldn't hurt to work together, maybe."

"Until we work out what's going on, I agree we should stick together," short-haired Sam agreed. The two Deans looked at him, then at each other.

"Well, whatever, man. This has been the weirdest evening and I'm gonna need a serious drink. Or at least sleep," short-haired Dean sighed.

"You and me both," shaggy Dean shrugged. "Sam?"

"We'll get a room in some other motel," short-haired Sam informed his brother. "It'll look pretty weird if we all stay in the same place."

"Good thinking, Batman," shaggy Dean nodded.

"Make sure you take the right Impala," shaggy Sam advised suddenly, and the other Sam grinned at him.

"Oh, believe me, I couldn't get her mixed up with anyone else's."

"Make sure you don't," short-haired Dean grunted, as if to himself.

Short-haired Sam gestured with his head to the door, and shaggy Dean happily picked up two coffee cups before heading for said exit. Short-haired Sam walked out of the door, pausing on the threshold. He looked back at the two doubles, watching him.

"You think… we'll all be here tomorrow?" he offered lamely.

"The way our luck goes? Absolutely," short-haired Dean nodded. He gave a friendly tip of the finger, and neat Sam nodded at his shaggy double before disappearing out of the room. He closed the door softly behind him, and the room fell silent.

Shaggy Sam blew out a long sigh and sat on the bed behind him rather heavily.

Short-haired Dean shook his head. He wiped his hands over his face before looking at the ceiling.

"We got to figure this out, man," Sam mumbled.

"You're telling me," Dean rumbled. "That kid is… weird."

"Kid? He's your age, Dean."

"He's like… little me. Mini-Me. Like… never-been-to-Hell, never-been-worn-down-by-all-that-crap me," he admitted guiltily.

Sam raised a half smile. "So… any ideas where they came from? Cos I know _we're_ real," he added firmly.

"No idea," Dean sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Maybe… I don't know. And right now, my brain's not exactly working," he admitted.

"Yeah," Sam nodded glumly. "I think mine's frozen."

"That's what the coffee's for," Dean said, smiling slightly.

Sam got up and went to the cups, picking one up and handing it to his brother. "What if… You think it's another Trickster thing?"

"Not really his style, is it?" Dean argued, taking the cup and pulling the lid off. "And… well, the kid has kinda had a better life than I have so far," he added with a dark look.

"You got that right," Sam agreed. "And the other Sam isn't full of demon blood."

"Don't start," Dean sighed.

Sam looked at the cup in his hands, walking back to the far bed. He thought for a moment. "Sirens?"

"So what are they after?" Dean shrugged.

The boys lifted their cups, tasting at the coffee and letting time pass them by for a while. Dean emptied his cup first, looking at the dregs in the bottom. He paused, then let the cup down. He looked at Sam.

"Whoever they are, and _whatever_ they are, we ain't the copies, Sammy."

"Why do you say that?"

"I don't know. But… something's not right."

Sam just laughed, earning him a dirty look from his older brother than made him sober up quickly. "Well?"

"The kid, the other Dean… He mentioned his dad died like a year or two ago."

"And? It could have happened earlier or later for them, if their Dad hadn't sold his soul to save their Dean in hospital," he said, off-hand. He realised, a little late, that perhaps he shouldn't have implied blame so clearly.

But Dean just shook his head. "Yeah, great, super. That's not what I mean."

"So… what?"

"He said it still felt like just a week ago, and he was full-on tearing up about it in the car, that's what," he said stiffly.

"And?"

"And? And it's been over two years, Sam! You'd think he'd quit blubbing about it after a few months, right?"

Sam stayed judiciously silent, deciding instead to sip his coffee.

"I'm just wondering if he _thinks_ it's been a few years, when really it's been… well, not a few years. Like maybe he's just got memories that aren't real, cos _he's_ not real."

"Woah. Very Philip K. Dick of you," Sam observed.

"I'm a what?"

"'_Do Androids Dream Of Electric Sheep?_'," Sam sighed.

"I don't know, do they?" Dean asked innocently.

Sam just looked at him - just looked. "_Bladerunner_," he tried again.

"Oh. Right. Yeah, I knew that."

"Anyway. You think these two are copies?"

"Absolutely. Which makes us the original Winchesters." He paused suddenly, and Sam noticed a light come to his eyes. "Like… we're having crappy lives, so someone or something has made a better version of us." He paused. "Better lives, better choices… Their Sam's the boss, their Dean's smarter."

"Someone upgraded us? Like… Winchesters 2.0?" Sam guessed.

"Absolutely! That makes 'em like… weird-ass clones… only better… Like transgenics! Like X-5s!" he joked, his face splitting into a grin. "If they are and we're the non transgenics, the humans, you could pass for Original Cindy," he chuckled.

"You could pass for an original asshole," Sam replied sweetly.

"Nah, man… I could be Alec. Man, he was cool," Dean nodded dismissively, waving him off. "So it's settled - we're the originals, and they're just… clones or something."

"Or something," Sam sighed. There was a long silence. "So… how come they think they stopped the Devil's Gate opening in Wyoming, when we know they didn't?"

"Cos their memories ain't their memories, maybe?"

"Hmm." Sam let his brain wrestle with it for a few moments longer. "Hey… You think it has something to do with the demons we still got roaming around this town?"

Dean blew out a long huff, wiping a hand across his mouth in thought. "Who knows, man."

"So… where do we go from here?"

Dean looked at him, surprised. "The demon, Sam. The guy that busted in our room like that. We find him and kill him," he shrugged. "That's what we do, Sammy."

"And them? Is that what they do, too?"

"I guess so. At least we'll have people we can trust on our side. Just for once."

"Are you sure?" Sam asked quietly.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Dean asked, turning on the bed and pinning him with a look that was in itself an entire training course on Curiosity.

"Just that… we've all taken to each other rather quickly. If I were a demon trying to get on the inside, this is how I'd do it."

Dean regarded his brother for a long moment. "You have a point," he nodded finally, and Sam relaxed slightly.

"So we tread carefully?"

"We tread carefully. If those X-5s give us any trouble…"

"What?" Sam dared.

"We burn that bridge when we come to it."

.

.

* * *

_**Thanks for reading and leaving reviews, people! I do my little happy dance every time I get one. :)**_


	5. Is You Is Or Is You Ain’t My Copy?

**FIVE**

**Is You Is Or Is You Ain't My Copy?**

.

Short-haired Sam walked round the motel bed, leaning over and smacking a hand at the lump under the blankets.

"C'mon Dean, rise and shine," he called, annoyed.

There was an answering grunt and the lump shifted. Sam backed away and sat on the bed heavily. He cradled his coffee in his hands, looking at it with unease. He waited, lost in his thoughts, until he realised he had lost track of time. He looked up at the other bed, shaking his head.

"Dean! Anytime, man!" he cried angrily. "There's coffee by your head."

The lump squirmed and moved, limbs and bumps shifting under the blankets with the enthusiasm of a child on a school day. Eventually a head popped out from the top end of the mess of bedclothes and a mop of unruly dark blond hair flopped over the edge of the blanket.

"Thought you were going to sleep all day," Sam bit out.

Shaggy Dean's eyes squinted round and he found his younger brother watching him. "What now?" he yawned, pushing an arm out to orientate himself with the mattress.

"We have a problem," Sam allowed. "Wake up. Get that coffee down your neck. I need your brain on this one," he muttered.

Dean eyed him, judged his mood to be one he did not want to poke with a stick, and grasped the edge of the bed. He pushed himself up on his front, turning round to sit. He reached for the coffee.

"Well?" he managed, peeling the lid off the cup and sipping at it cautiously. He found it not too hot and took a huge mouthful.

"These other two… us-es," short-haired Sam said with discomfort. Dean looked at him. He put the coffee down and raked his hands through his shaggy hair, scrubbing at his head.

"Yeah?"

"Well… Where did they come from?"

"How should I know?" Dean shrugged, his knees coming up under the blanket. He leaned his elbows on them, sniffing and rubbing an eye.

"Any ideas?" Sam pressed. "They can't be real, dude. If they are, we're not."

"We could both be real," Dean shrugged.

"That's just nuts."

"Hey, that demon said he was here to clean house, right?" Dean pressed. "He was talking at their Sam like he was real enough - and he did call you a trespasser."

"Yeah… What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Someone who goes somewhere they're not allowed to g--"

"Dean," Sam tutted, eyeing his brother's cheeky smile. He sighed and shook his head. "Look. I know we're real, I _know_ we are."

"And?" Dean asked innocently.

Sam looked at him, noting not for the first time how young and innocent he looked for all his thirty years. "And… how are we both real?"

Dean's head tilted slightly. "You worried we're not real after all?" he breathed with doubt.

Sam didn't answer. But his eyes did.

Dean reached out and smacked the back of his hand into his baby brother's knee painfully.

"Ow!" Sam objected.

"See? You're real," Dean shrugged with a smile.

"You're not taking this seriously, are you?" Sam accused. "You never do any more!"

"Hey, calm down. All I'm saying is, however they got here and for whatever reason, they're no less real than we are," Dean protested. "That fact that the pairs are all messed up and they're like amalgamations of the wrong side of a mirror don't mean they're not real too."

"Great," Sam sighed. "So we're supposed to let them help us get rid of a bunch of demons." He looked at his brother, who was reaching for the coffee again. "Should we?"

"Why not?" Dean shrugged. "A demon's a demon, and a few less is always a good thing." He paused, sipping the coffee. "Besides, the more we find out about these two weirdoes, the easier it'll be to figure out where they've come from."

"Good point." He sipped his coffee, thinking. "Hey… You buying that story of their Dean's?" he asked gently.

"What story?"

"About him… selling his soul, that he only got one year, all that. You think he really did?"

"He says he did. And he says he went to Hell for it," Dean shrugged.

"Hell? Really," Sam snorted dismissively. "Like… really."

"Yeah, really," Dean blinked.

"And you believe him?"

"I… think I do," he allowed edgily. "I mean… He was quite… adamant that… Well, he's had it harder than us," he finished quietly.

"Sounds like they really got the shitty flipside," Sam nodded.

"Yeah. And I thought our lives have been fucked up so far. At least I haven't died and you aren't--" He stopped abruptly.

"I'm not what?"

"Well… their Dean kinda mentioned that… That their Sam can… He's got like psychic powers," he finished lamely.

Sam leaned over and put the coffee cup down smartly. "That's it," he said firmly, getting to his feet.

"What?"

"They are taking the piss out of us, man!" Sam accused angrily. "Dean's been to Hell? Sam's psychic? What's next, they bang angels and demons on their weekends off?"

"There's no such thing as angels--"

"_We_ know that! But they seem to think there are!" Sam interrupted. "What a load of _horseshit_, man! What do they think we are, five?"

"Then let's go meet up with them, agree to help hunt down these demons, and get a closer look at them. Maybe there's a clue in all these tall tales somewhere that tells us where they came from."

"Agreed," Sam managed. He turned to his duffle as Dean pulled back the blankets, getting out of bed.

"Hey," Dean said quietly, looking down at the Egyptian ankh on the thin leather cord round his neck.

"What?" Sam asked.

Dean put his hand up, lifting the charm and studying it. "You see their Dean's amulet thing?"

"The one that looks like a Mesopotamian or Zoroastrian dude?"

"Well… Do you think their mom gave it to him, like Mom gave mine to me?"

"Don't know." He thought for a second, seeing the pinched expression of troubled unfairness on his older sibling's face. "Don't go feeling sorry for them," he accused, and Dean looked up at him. "When this is all figured out, they might have to _disappear_ somehow. Remember that."

"Yeah," Dean admitted, a touch sadly. "Yeah."

The phone in the room began to ring and they both just looked at it. Then Dean stretched a hand out and picked it up.

"Yeah'ello?" He paused. "Dean - man, that sounds weird," he admitted. "How did you know where we--. Oh, yeah, right, Jim Rockford," he nodded. "He what? Ok. Where? Got it. So we'll just meet--. Right. And you'll have--. Okie dokie."

He put the receiver down, feeling Sam's eyes on him. He looked up at his younger taller brother and his short, neat hair.

"That was… uh, Dean," he nodded.

"So I gathered," Sam said deliberately. "Well?"

"He says Detective Hyver called him with another suspicious death that also had sulphur at the scene. He says to meet at the police station."

"Oh does he?" Sam retorted crisply. "And who put _him_ in charge?"

"Sam--"

"Dean, just get dressed," he snapped.

.

* * *

.

"That… is just… not right," short-haired Dean observed, watching a black '67 Impala exactly like his own pull up on the opposite side of the street.

"What? The replica car?" Sam asked innocently.

"That and… you're driving it," Dean muttered.

"Thanks."

"No, it's like…" Dean paused, watching the doors open and the two men get out. "You remember that interview you had? For like, that high school summer thing?"

Sam thought for a long moment. "Uh… vaguely."

"That was the last time you had hair that short," Dean observed. "It's… freaky."

Sam tutted and got out of the car, leaning on the roof. The two other Winchesters crossed the road quickly, jogging to a stop by him.

"Hey," short-haired Sam managed.

"Hey," shaggy Sam replied. "Looks like we're all still here then."

"Doesn't it," shaggy Dean put in from behind him.

They heard the driver's door squeak and short-haired Dean appeared, closing it quietly behind him. "So what's the plan?" he asked the three of them at large. "We can't all go into the police station - Detective Hyver will go nuts."

"Well he met you two first - you should go back in," shaggy Dean nodded. Short-haired Sam looked at him. "What?" he shrugged. "Makes more sense."

Short-haired Dean nodded. "That I can get behind." He walked around the car, looking at shaggy Sam expectantly. "Well? Let's see what he's got for us."

.

* * *

.

The Winchesters walked confidently into the station, seeking out the right office and knocking smartly on the door.

"Come," called Hyver's voice.

Dean opened the door. "Detective," he said smoothly, heading for the chair. Sam followed him in and they towered over the man's desk.

"Agents," he nodded. "Case details?"

"Please," shaggy Sam nodded.

"Florist shop in town - nearly went bust, then went boom."

"Business turned around?" Dean guessed.

"No, it literally went '_boom!_'," Hyver replied apologetically. "Business had picked up, but only because a rival florist went bust the month before. Then old Mr Deeley's place went up in what we think may be an electrical fire. We're having the wiring checked."

"Right," Dean allowed. "You mentioned sulphur was involved?"

"Yes - this is interesting," Hyver said stonily, picking up a brown manila file and waving it slightly. "There was a single pile of sulphur - very pure - right by the path leading to the home that doubled as Mr Deeley's shop. It was far enough away from the fire that we think it has nothing to do with it."

"So…?" Sam prompted.

"So it definitely was, right?" he pressed urgently. "It has to have been. We've got some nut going round burning something up that leaves this pile of sulphuric ash behind, before he kills or burns his victims to death."

"Riiiiight," Dean breathed, eyeing the intent on the man's face.

Hyver paused, picking up the air of general bewilderment in the room. "Look, gentlemen… Take a seat," he said slowly.

Sam and Dean exchanged a glance before doing just that. Hyver put his forearms on the desk, lacing his fingers and leaning forward.

"I can see you two have done this kind of thing before, and I'm not trying to hang off your coattails or ride your slipstream to the win. All I want is to get this thing solved fast and right now, I don't care how that's done."

Sam let his chin tilt and then he risked a lip-twitch. "We all want it solved quickly, Detective," he said.

"I've spotted a pattern," Hyver said, and now he looked much more uncomfortable.

"Well come on then, lay it on us," Dean sighed. "We're not getting any younger."

Sam spared him a glance, his interest piqued, before fixing his hazel-green eyes back on the police detective.

"It's… Well, it's nothing, I hope--. I think," he amended, but he opened the manila file and turned it toward the Winchesters. "It's just that… All the victims? They all died from suspicious accidents. Now I can't prove they're anything more than that - but I know there's something hinky going on here."

"Hinky?" Dean echoed.

"The deceased aren't linked in any way - except for one thing," Hyver continued nervously.

"And that is?" Sam asked eagerly.

"They all had recent success - in a big way," Hyver stated clearly. "Then, not long after, they died."

"Great. Any other information we should be going on?" Dean sighed.

"Well… yeah." Hyver took a fortifying breath. "I know someone who's just had a spot of good fortune. Suspiciously so," he admitted quietly.

"Suspiciously?" Sam pressed. He shifted in the chair abruptly. "Detective Hyver, what kind of good fortune did _you_ get?"

The man ran a hand over his forehead in a worried manoeuvre that the boys recognised too easily. "It's not me. My partner… Look, we live together, we've been together for… years," he managed.

"And?" Dean asked impatiently. "And what? One of you's won the lotto?"

"No," Hyver said, "nothing like that. It's complicated."

Dean sat back with a huff that told Sam all he needed to know about how much patience his elder brother had left to draw on. He leaned forward quickly, cutting off whatever it was Dean was about to say in frustration.

"Detective Hyver," he said gently. "Explain. We can help you."

Hyver looked up slowly, staring into Sam's large eyes and taking a small swallow.

"Christopher," he said clearly. "My partner, Christopher. He's been battling stomach cancer for a few years - nine, actually," he allowed tightly. "It was under control, managed - but not getting any better. Then just yesterday he called me from the clinic to tell me it was in remission."

Sam's eyes turned soft and concerned. "And you think this is suspicious good fortune?"

"Yes," Hyver nodded. "Nine years is a hell of a long time, Agent Young," he said firmly. "And then just overnight, it starts to just die off? I'm a suspicious man, and I don't like it. It's too much good news - it's too lucky."

Dean leaned forward slowly, placing his elbow on the desk and letting it lie along the edge. Hyver transferred his gaze to him and the elder Winchester noticed a certain tinge of pleading to the man's eyes he had seen in his own brother's too many times before.

"Detective Hyver," he said carefully, glancing down at the name plaque on the desk before looking back at him, "_Richard_. Where is Christopher now?"

.

.


	6. There's No Such Thing As A Free Lunch

**SIX**

**There's No Such Thing As A Free Lunch**

.

Short-haired Dean burst out of the police station, jogging down the steps and finding the two doubles leaning on an Impala. He paused and checked it carefully, trying to work out if they were leaning on their own double version of his beloved vehicle, or if they seriously wanted to incur his wrath.

"Fellas," he said crisply.

Shaggy Dean looked up, half an Egg McMuffin hanging from his mouth. Short-haired Sam turned around, appraising the daunted look on the Dean still dressed as an FBI agent.

"Bad news?" he ventured.

"Could go either way," short-haired Dean allowed. Shaggy Sam in his FBI suit caught him up from behind and the two pairs looked at each other. "Right. We might have a lead on who could be next - so we're going to go find him and sit on him until he tells us if he got himself a miracle cure from cancer through a crossroads deal, or some demon turns up to kill him off like he's been doing the others."

"So what do _we_ do?" shaggy Dean asked darkly.

"You," said short-haired Dean, turning to look at him with a pleased smile that short-haired Sam took to be more authoritative than friendly, "can track down our demon dude that likes to make Batman entrances in motel rooms."

"Cool. I'm on it," shaggy Dean nodded, already pushing the last remnants of muffin into his mouth as he turned to the car.

"Whoa - wait a second," short-haired Sam said quickly, his hands up. "One, why are _we_ tracking down this demon when he clearly knows _your_ Sam, and two, who are you to decide what the four of us do?"

Short-haired Dean paused, then turned and looked up at the neat, affronted version of his brother.

"What do you want us to do? Go round together like the Scooby gang and hope everyone just thinks we're twins?" he countered.

Short-haired Sam's lip curled slightly. "I want you to stop thinking you're in charge here. I want you and your Sam - who obviously kicked all this off - to go find this demon who thinks he knows you. Then my brother and I will go find this suspect and question him."

"_Protect_ him," shaggy Sam put in quickly. "And while you're at it, you might want to look out for Detective Hyver, too."

"So are you going to go in there and explain to him why you two swapped hairpieces and junked your FBI suits, _and_ have no idea what conversation you just had with him about his partner?" short-haired Dean pressed. "Or are you gonna let us just do our friggin' jobs and go do something useful yourself?"

Short-haired Dean and short-haired Sam shared more than just the hairstyle. They also shared a rather baleful, assertive stare for a long, long second.

Until shaggy Dean put his hand up, knocking his Sam's elbow before he pulled on it.

"Look, man," he began quietly. "They're right, and you know it. This Hyver dude and this suspect are expecting these FBI suits, not us. Let's go find a way to get a lead on this--"

Short-haired Sam yanked his arm free of his brother's grip, turning on him suddenly. "Sure, yeah. Back down, he says. Like every other damn time and every other damn thing you've ever done in your life!"

Shaggy Sam opened his mouth, alarmed and outraged for shaggy Dean's sake, but short-haired Dean slapped a hand into his own brother's chest and stopped him talking and moving. The pair in FBI suits watched shaggy Dean.

He simply let his eyes fall to the pavement before shrugging. His face took on a small, rueful smile and he looked up slowly. His eyes didn't meet his brother's. They wandered over the checked shirt under his brother's chin, Bemusement and Bravado standing back to back to conquer all comers.

"Then tell me what to do next, bro," he allowed with a sad smile. "I'm waiting."

Short-haired Sam took a deep breath and huffed it out of his nose, fuming at his older sibling. Shaggy Sam put a hand up and brushed his own brother's hand off him, and the FBI Winchesters shared a worried glance.

"Fine," short-haired Sam ground out, still staring at shaggy Dean as if his eyes alone could sheer the floppy hair from him. "We'll go find this demon. Although how we're supposed to do that with absolutely no information to go on, I don't know."

He looked back at the two Winchesters watching them with carefully guarded expressions of interest.

"And you two," he said harshly, eyeing his double, "don't fuck this up. Get the witness, suspect, whatever, and you make sure you keep them safe until they can explain a few things."

"We will," shaggy Sam assured him with earnest firmness.

"And another thing?" short-haired Sam snapped. "Don't do those eyes on me, Sam. I invented them." He turned and pushed past his shaggy brother, heading to the driver's side of the car by which they were stood.

Shaggy Dean raised his eyes to the other pair of brothers, shrugging innocently. Shaggy Sam nodded at him apologetically, but as shaggy Dean passed his FBI counterpart, he paused.

"It's not what you think," he said quietly to short-haired Dean, not looking at him. "You just gotta know how to handle him."

Short-haired Dean put a hand up, patting his shoulder twice before letting it drop again. Shaggy Dean flashed him a tiny smile and walked between the men, heading for the passenger door behind them.

The FBI Winchesters stood back, watching the copy of the Impala fire up and pull away down the street.

Shaggy Sam put his hands in his trousers pockets and it was quiet for a long moment. Then he turned to appraise his short-haired elder brother with curiosity.

"What does he mean, 'those eyes'?"

.

* * *

.

An identical Impala containing two Winchesters in FBI suits pulled up at the kerb, short-haired Dean pushing her into Park and sitting back. Shaggy Sam leaned forward in the passenger seat and looked through the driver's window, considering the house.

"Nice place," he nodded with appreciation.

Not too large but obviously well-maintained, the square abode was planted neatly within a lawn that could possibly have seen better days. A tree just taller than Sam himself was a few feet to the left of the front door, a charming bird feeder attached to it.

"Is this what an apple pie life looks like?" Dean asked slowly.

Sam smiled. "If you're a thirty-something police detective who's been living with the love of his life for years, yes."

"Who just happens to be a guy."

"You got a problem with that?" Sam teased.

Dean rolled his eyes and opened the car door. "So what, we thinking he's made a crossroads deal to get himself healed?" he asked, hauling himself out of the classic vehicle.

"Best guess so far," Sam shrugged, also climbing out. He closed the door, looking across the roof. "Shame."

"That he made a deal with a demon?" Dean scoffed.

"No. That it was over cancer. If it had been over money, or fame, or something like that…"

"Yeah. I know," Dean muttered. "But hey," he added with false brightness, "we're going to find the demon that sold him his contract and toast 'em. So they'll never collect. Christopher keeps his health and doesn't pay for it in the end."

"Yeah," Sam allowed.

They walked up the path, stopping at the front door and ringing the bell. They waited a full minute, then rang again.

Eventually a shape appeared behind the beautifully wrought swirls and patterns and the glass door opened slightly on a chain.

"Can I help you?" said a friendly voice, coupled with inquisitive eyes through the gap.

"Christopher Smith?" Dean asked with as much sunshine as he could.

"Yes. Who are you?"

"We're Special Agents Young and Scott, we've come to talk to you."

"Oh! Young and Scott," said the voice. "Rich said you were coming. Hold on there."

The door closed, the chain was removed, and the door was opened up again.

Sam and Dean took in the tall, thin man, his hopeful face a little weary but offset by the happy fluffiness of his brown hair. He waved them in and they wiped their feet before entering.

"So Rich said you're like special agents into special things," he ventured nervously, closing the front door behind them.

"We are," Sam said firmly. "And we've come to make sure nothing happens to you."

"Why would something happen to me?" Christopher said quickly, alarmed.

"Let's just back up here," Dean said hastily, putting his hands up. "We need to explain a few things, and you need to tell us all you know about how you got your miracle cure."

Christopher's face took on a sudden paleness. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he replied crisply.

"Are you sure?" Sam asked gently. Christopher looked at him with what appeared to be slight fear on his smooth features. "Because we kind of already know some of how you got it… We just need to know the details."

Christopher ran a hand through his hair, scrubbing at his head for a long few seconds. "Ok, look… Richard doesn't know. And you're not going to tell him."

"We may have to," Sam said quietly.

Christopher considered the two of them in silence. While the taller Agent Young appeared earnest, worried, the shorter Agent Scott was radiating impatience and a keen edge of weary experience.

"Alright, alright…" He blew out a sigh. "The front room's through there. Take a seat," he managed. "Coffee?"

Dean opened his mouth but Sam nudged him. "No, thank you, we're good," the younger Winchester said swiftly. Dean clamped his mouth shut and Sam nodded at Christopher. "We really need to ask you some questions."

"Ok then." He led them along the carpet until he opened a door and ushered them in.

The front room was bright and airy, a contrast to the brothers' mood as they sat themselves on the sofa. Photographs in frames adorned the bookshelves, pictures of fishing trips, days at Universal Studios, two men holding plastic cups of beer with baseball jerseys, big smiles and high hopes.

Christopher followed them in, folding himself into an armchair steadily.

"So… what do you want to know?" he asked quietly.

"First off - we're not here to judge you for anything that you've done," Sam said evenly, and the man looked up with haste, his eyes pinched into shame. "We're not. Because - second? We think you made a deal with someone. Someone who could make your cancer go away." He hesitated before Dean sat forwards, his elbows on his knees.

"Are we right?" he asked.

The man in the chair let his eyes wander to one side as a titanic struggle went on between his conscience and his beliefs. At last, his beliefs won.

"You don't know what it's been like. It's been _years_. It's constant pain and discomfort, worry and heart-sickness. For the last five years, all I've done is function and deal with things week to week. Other people make plans for trips, holidays, reunions for the coming year. All I do is cope with this month, hoping and striving so that I even _get_ a next year." He paused, running a hand over his face. "All I _did_." He took a steadying breath, looking at Sam. "Do you have any idea what it feels like, never knowing if you're going to wake up one day and get told you have six months to live?"

"Kinda," Dean grunted.

Christopher looked at him sharply. "You get the easy way out," he observed, and Dean met his eyes, confused. "If you two die on the job, you die. In a day. Looking like you do." He clasped his hands together, watching them. "I was not going to die easily or painlessly or quickly. Much as I wanted to just overdose and let it all go without the horror… there was Richard."

Sam looked at his feet, then back up at man wracked with guilt. "How do you mean?"

"Oh come on," Christopher scoffed with bravado. "How could I die to avoid all the coming years of pain and frustration, and leave Richard behind like that? We've been together for so long…" He cleared his throat. "I didn't want to die. I didn't want to hurt Richard. I didn't want to wake up every single day wondering how bad the test results would be this time. I just wanted it all to stop - I wanted to be normal again."

The Winchesters nearly looked at each other, but they couldn't make it.

"So… What did you do?" Dean asked quietly.

Christopher smiled faintly. "I was coming out of the clinic. I was holding this piece of paper that said the same as last month's - 'no response to change of treatment'. I walked to my car and there was this… girl."

"What colour eyes did she have?" Dean asked quickly.

Christopher looked at him, confused. "Green," he shrugged. "Is that important?"

"Please, carry on," Sam said gently.

"Well… So anyway, there was this girl. She was trying to unlock her car door but she was holding all these bags of groceries, so I just helped her. I held her bags for her and she was so grateful. She said she'd seen me around, asked me if I were working at the hospice." He smiled faintly. "I was… It was nice, y'know? For someone to look at me as if I were a helpful member of society, not a burden slowly wasting away."

Sam cleared his throat quietly and Christopher looked at him.

"So I told her I wasn't an employee, that I was a patient. She told me she'd lost people to cancer and asked if I wanted a coffee."

"And you went. And she was very supportive," Dean put in slowly. "And then she said she knew a way you could get better."

Christopher sighed and sat back in the comfortable chair, looking at Dean with large, knowing eyes.

"Yes. She said I couldn't tell anyone. She said that no matter what happened and no matter who asked - even Richard - I wasn't allowed to tell anyone."

"So… why are you telling us?" Sam asked.

Christopher transferred his gaze to him. "Because my cancer is in remission and for the first time in years I woke up this morning and the pain wasn't so bad. I thought it was all going so well… And then Richard called. He sounded so scared. He said he wanted me to stay home today, that he'd send the FBI to come and talk to me." He paused, wetting dry lips. "And suddenly I wondered what the hell that girl had done. Had she put something in my coffee? Had she trialed some new drug on me and now the FBI want to arrest me for 'stealing' non-FDA approved drugs? It was just… I've never heard Richard so… _scared_." He paused. "I thought you'd come to arrest me."

"Nothing like that," Dean allowed with rueful smile. "Trust us. We're not here about drugs."

"So what is it?" Christopher demanded. "I've already told you everything I know."

"Except one thing. Did she mention you'd have to pay for this treatment, this miracle?"

"She did."

"What did she ask for?" Dean pressed.

"My silence. She said I wasn't to tell anyone."

"That's it? Your silence?"

"Yes," Christopher shrugged, bewildered. "She said she'd sort things out for me, and then she left."

"She just left?" Sam echoed.

"Yes! I paid for her coffee, she got up, kissed me goodbye, and left!"

"She kissed you?" the boys repeated together.

"Yes! Here!" Christopher cried in frustration, pointing at his forehead.

Sam and Dean exchanged a glance.

"What the hell, man?" Dean demanded. "No ten years, no payment, no eyes? Is this really a demon?"

.

.


	7. Better The Demon You Know

**SEVEN**

**Better The Demon You Know**

.

Shaggy Dean pulled the iPhone from his pocket, sliding a thumb across it to answer the call. "Yeah'ello? Oh, hey - uh, Dean," he allowed. "Listen man, do you have a middle name I could call you instead? Oh. Me neither. Well what you got for us, Old Man?"

Short-haired Sam looked at him across the Impala, negotiating the traffic to reach the kerb and pull up slowly.

"Larissa? That's the name of the demon? Larissa? As in a Roman nymph of Thessaly? No, a _nymph_. Like a--. Never mind," shaggy Dean continued. "Yeah, sure. Any other intel?"

Sam got out of the car, waiting for his brother to follow suit. He climbed out and closed the door slowly.

"Rings a bell but I don't know why. I'll see what I can dig up. Cool." He let the phone drop from his ear and looked up at his taller brother. "Their Dean says this guy may or may not have made a deal with some chick called Larissa," shaggy Dean offered.

"And we're supposed to go off that to find this demon?"

"Yeah," Dean shrugged.

"Super. Does he have any idea how many people in the world are called 'Larissa'?"

"I'm guessing… no. One thing troubles me though," Dean confessed.

"What?"

"This demon that crashed our first meeting? He was a guy," he pointed out. "Now this witness dude says he met a girl."

"So? Demons can inhabit whomever they want," Sam shrugged.

"They _can_," Dean allowed. "But… what if it's not one demon here, Sam? What if we got two?"

"Then we need to find that out."

"Yeah," shaggy-haired Dean muttered, slipping his iPhone back in his pocket and looking about as happy as a polar bear at the zoo.

"Ok, what?" Sam challenged, leaning on the roof of the car to study his brother.

"Well… They're safe-guarding the guy, right?"

"Apparently."

"And we're looking up info on what's coming for this guy."

"Under duress."

"Why don't we just summon this demon Larissa and ask her what's going on? She could tell us everything."

Sam's mouth opened, then closed again. His brain regrouped and he tilted his head, considering his brother. "You know," he said, smiling at last, "that's a very good idea." _Getting the jump on those two impostors? I'm all for that._

"Right then. So… let's go find something on this Larissa," shaggy Dean nodded cheerfully.

.

* * *

.

Christopher carried the cups of coffee into the front room, handing them to the FBI-suited Winchesters with an apologetic smile.

"So, Agent Scott, you mentioned a demon," he said brightly. "Are we talking classical mythology demons, or personal problems?" He sat down, watching the pair of them exchange a glance.

"Ah… Classical mythology type," Dean allowed uneasily. "We thought… Well, we thought you'd made a deal with one."

"Sold your soul for a cure. And ten years to live," Sam put in helpfully.

"What? Ten years of good health? And then what?" Christopher smiled, apparently enjoying the conversation.

"And then…. You'd meet the lovely Larissa again and she'd claim your soul as payment," Dean said slowly. "You'd die and end up in Hell."

"There's no such thing as Hell," Christopher said with a snort.

"Riiiiiight," Dean breathed, deeming it safer to look at his coffee than at the man watching him with bemusement.

"I mean, I used to be a believer. I did," he said conversationally. "But… hey, what do I have to lose? Well, until a few days ago, that is. Oh," he said quietly. "But then, it wasn't God who healed me."

"No. It may have been someone working for the other side," Sam said. "Are you _sure_ she didn't ask for _anything_?"

"Nothing, Agent Young, believe me."

"Call me Sam, it's quicker," he said dismissively. "What exactly did she say?"

"She said she'd seen too many people go through shitty lives, that she could help me, that I shouldn't tell anyone… That's about it."

"What the hell?" Dean blurted, sitting back and looking at Sam. "A misanthropic demon?"

"If she _is_ a demon," Sam sighed. "She could be…"

"What? An angel?" Dean snorted. "That's not how it works, Sam, you know that."

"All I'm saying is, why would a demon just cure someone without a contract or at least payment?"

"I don't know, alright? Maybe this Larissa chick is on some special list of demons that rebel, or something."

The Winchesters paused as they realised Christopher was watching them.

"Um… What department of the FBI are you from, again?"

"Mulder and Scully couldn't make it today," Dean said with a smile.

"Right," Christopher sighed.

There was a blare of guitars and drums and Dean shifted, pushing his hand in his pocket. He flipped the phone open quickly. "Anything?" he asked immediately. He listened to something on the other end for a moment before looking at Sam, a warning on his face. "Right. See what else you can get, and how we find her. You want to what? Uh… yeah, great idea, X-5. You get it started. Gotta blaze." He snapped the phone shut and looked at Sam.

"Dean - uhm - I mean _their_ Dean found something?" Sam hazarded.

"He did," he said, casting a warning glance at Christopher. "This Larissa is on a list of half-demons. She may or may not be one of many daughters of some demon broad called Rubicante."

"Rubicante?" Sam echoed. "Why does that sound familiar?"

"I have no idea. But she's half demon, which may explain the cure without the contract thing."

"Excuse me, Agent Young," Christopher said suddenly.

"Call me Dean."

"Dean, then. Uh… This Rubicante is a demon?"

"Yes. Used to be human, wound up in Hell, sloughed the real girl skin and became the kind of Hell bitch who skins baby rabbits alive for kicks before dropping them in vinegar. If this Larissa is her daughter, we are not letting you out of our sight," he said firmly.

Christopher paled. "Oh. You really _aren't _kidding about this demon thing, are you?"

"Nope." He looked at Sam. "Those two impostors are going to try summoning her to get some answers - so we need to make sure Christopher here is safe."

"Just in case?" Sam offered. "You don't trust those two to do it right?"

"Sammy - have I ever trusted _anyone_ to do it right?"

"Good point."

.

* * *

.

Shaggy Dean turned the book around slowly, sliding it across the library desk to his brother. He tapped the page meaningfully before Sam looked at it.

"This her?" he asked quietly.

Shaggy Dean nodded, then pointed to the caption underneath the large picture of a classically beautiful young lady of voluptuous proportions. "Says this here is Larissa, daughter of Rubicante, one of the thirteen Malebranche that Dante wrote about in his _Inferno_," shaggy Dean replied, just as quietly.

"Dante's _Inferno_?" Sam echoed. "Isn't that a little fictional?"

"However he got the name and whatever else he made up, he spelled it right," Dean warned. "If this Larissa is what happened when Rubicante took herself topside for some R and R, it would make Larissa half a demon."

"And Dante wrote about that?"

"No, but Wallenschaff did in his treatise on demons and their roots as seen from other religions," Dean replied innocently. "He reckoned half demons were stuck in human form but would still have enough juice to pull the kind of crap that full demons do. It also means we might be able to gank her with a charmed blade real easy - her being stuck in human form for eternity and unable to just smoke her way out whenever she wants. Plus we got the Colt, too. If it kills full demons, it'll kill their half-breed Hellspawn."

Sam just let his mouth flounder for a second.

"What?" shaggy Dean asked innocently.

"Where do you _get_ all this stuff?" short-haired Sam dared, half impressed, half unsettled.

"They're called 'books', Sam," Dean grunted. He stood slowly. "We need to find the summoning ritual for this chick and end it ASAP."

"Oh… kay," Sam allowed, closing the book. "Where do we look for that?"

Shaggy Dean chucked a thumb over his shoulder. "Not here. I might have more luck on a computer."

.

* * *

.

Shaggy Sam got to his feet, looking around the front room slowly. "Uh, Christopher - do you have any salt?"

"Um - in the kitchen, why?" he asked, also standing quickly.

"We need lots of it," Sam said firmly. He nodded to the door. "That way?"

"Y-yes," Christopher managed, turning toward it.

Short-haired Dean looked at the windows. "You got a room with a little less glass?" he asked before Christopher could open the door.

"Upstairs. Back bedroom," he replied. "Why?"

"We'll explain everything when we're in there and all the exits and entrances are sealed with salt," Dean nodded. "Let's go."

They piled out of the front room and into the kitchen, finding the amount of salt Christopher actually had was woefully insufficient.

"I'll get more from the car," Dean called, already heading to the door to the landing. "You get him upstairs and start on the windows."

"Check," Sam called, turning Christopher round and pushing him at the doorway.

"What are we doing?" he asked, starting to look rather unsettled.

"Let's just get upstairs," Sam said firmly. "Then we'll go through it."

.

* * *

.

Shaggy Dean grinned and sat back from the laptop, clapping his hands together in triumph. "Aw, _man_! Am I awesome, or am I awesome?"

"Found it?" Sam called, appearing from the motel bathroom, wiping his hands dry on a towel.

"Of course," shaggy Dean replied smugly. "I have a summoning ritual we can use for Larissa, and according to several sources, a devil's trap will still hold her."

"Groovy. Let's get started," short-haired Sam nodded, crossing the room to look over Dean's shoulder. "What do we need?"

"The same old shit," Dean said, getting up. "Want me to get the crap from the car, so you can start on the traps for when she arrives?"

"Do it," Sam agreed.

Dean dragged hands through his floppy hair before snatching up the car keys and heading for the door. Sam looked at the room critically, going to the nearest bed and pushing it to one side. He went to his duffle and brought out a can of spray paint, thinking as he shook it violently.

.

* * *

.

"So then," Christopher managed gamely, resting his hands on his bent-up knees. "You two were going to explain the salt. And demons. And my part in all this."

Short-haired Dean, on his right, considered the sawn-off shotgun taking time out on the knee of his FBI suit. _Where do I start?_

Shaggy-haired Sam, sat on Christopher's left, nodded. "It's…" he began, leaning heavily against the wall, watching the door as if it might leap over and bite any one of them at any moment.

"It's complicated," Dean put. "Simply put, you didn't know what you were doing, but you made a deal with a half-demon. She's caused your cancer to go into remission. Normally, demons demand a soul for services rendered."

"Normally?"

"Normally," Sam added. His grip tightened on the shotgun in his hands. "But she didn't mention that to you, she didn't give you a time frame. Right?"

"Right," Christopher shrugged.

"She did seal the deal though," Dean pointed out, glancing at the single window to their left.

"How?"

"She kissed you," Dean shrugged.

"Oh. Is that always how they do it?"

"Never known it different," Dean grunted.

"I don't want to know what that means, do I?" Christopher asked quietly.

"No, you do not," Dean answered clearly. "All you have to know is, when that half-demon appears, me and Sam will kill it. You stay cancer-free and she dies. End of story."

"Really?" Christopher nodded weakly. "Great."

"It's going to be fine," Sam said confidently. "We've done this before, and besides - we have help."

"The other agent who called you?"

"Uhm… yeah. Him and his partner. They've done this before too - and they know how to kill demons. We've got everything covered."

Dean leaned forward and pinned his younger, shaggier brother with a look. Sam noticed and just looked back at him with burning innocence.

"Yeah," Dean breathed, leaning back against the wall to watch the room, "we got everything covered."

"So I'm actually in more danger now than before I unwittingly made that deal." He sighed philosophically. "Could be worse, I suppose."

Sam and Dean looked at him, the same question written on their faces. He looked at Sam, then Dean, then back at the only door to the room with a broad smile.

"Well, look at it from my point of view," he continued, "I'm trapped in a bedroom with two hot guys."

Sam snorted with amusement before he laughed. Christopher grinned. And eventually, even Dean's bleakness started to see the funny side and he let himself join the other two in their chuckling.

.

* * *

.

Shaggy-haired Dean snapped the book of Latin shut, sniffing and stepping back from the sigil on the floor. Sam gripped his shotgun more tightly, watching all around the room.

"That's it, it's done," shaggy Dean said rather redundantly, dropping the book on the bed and grabbing up the long-barrelled Colt Paterson quickly.

"So… how long do we wait?" short-haired Sam demanded.

"As long as it takes her to get here," Dean shrugged. He walked to the window, looking out. "Uh, dude?"

"What?"

"Did you salt the door?"

"Why do you--"

The door burst inward on its hinges, making both Winchesters jump and spin toward it. They held their weapons ready as a man took a step over the threshold.

"Hello again, boys," he smiled, taking his hands from his jeans pockets. "Remember me?"

"You're not Larissa," short-haired Sam guessed, backing up and raising the shotgun.

"Give the man a prize," the man clapped, blinking black orbs at the taller Winchester. "I was listening in. Kind of… inserted myself where I shouldn't have been - a bit like Dean here and all those waitresses," he said, swinging his head round to take in the older, shaggier Winchester. "So _alt_ Dean," he grinned. "Have you figured out who I am yet?"

"Is it supposed to be obvious?" he ground out, keeping the Colt trained on him.

The man stepped further into the room, putting a hand out. The door swung shut slowly, closing with the gentlest of clicks.

"Maybe not," he allowed. "So I'll say: hi, my name's Urobach and I'm from Hell. I like spit-roasting humans, torturing those who sell their souls, dark and stormy nights, and of course cleaning up other demons' messes." He turned his Stygian eyes on Sam. "And then _you _two will say, gee, Urobach, what big demonic powers you have. And then we'll all stand around like good friends until that conniving bitch Larissa arrives."

"You're after Larissa too?" shaggy Dean blurted.

Urobach, in the middle-aged skin suit currently wearing jeans and a faded Bad Company t-shirt, looked at him, before surveying the room slowly. He let his head tilt, thinking.

"Ohhh, I _see_… You really have _no idea_ what's going on here, do you?" he realised. "You don't even know why she's not answering your call to arms. You know, it's a shame I had to cut her off like that - but I couldn't have her meeting up with you two before I'd had a crack at you, so to speak," he sniffed. His eyes fastened on Sam. "I'm guessing you two bright young things know where she is right now. So I'll just torture the lovely Larissa's whereabouts out of you two, rub you out like the trespassing little stains on the rug that you are and we'll call it even. Hmm?"

.

.

* * *

_**I am really interested in all your comments regarding short-haired Sam. It's intriguing - knowing what I know. :)**_


	8. Guns Don't Kill People, Demons Do

**EIGHT**

**Guns Don't Kill People, Demons Do**

.

Short-haired Dean pulled out his phone and flipped it open. "Here," he said quickly, passing it to Christopher, "Call Richard, tell him we got you safe - and to _stay away_ until this is finished."

"Thanks," he managed, taking the phone and pressing the keys in haste. He sniffed and cleared his throat, putting the phone to his ear. "Rich - it's me," he said confidently. "No - listen - stop! Everything's ok," he cried, drowning out the voice from the other end. "Yes. The two FBI agents are here. We're waiting it out - they have two more partners on the case, too. It's going to be ok."

Dean leaned forward, catching Sam's eye. He looked back at him, smiling slightly.

"Yes. Don't be such a girl. Everything's ok here. Do _not_ come over - you stay there and stay safe. I'll call you the moment it's over. Right," he said professionally. "Of course I'm not in any real danger. You know how you get it all out of perspective when it's us. Just get back to work, everything's under control. Trust me." He paused, smiling suddenly. "Yeah. I'll call. Love you." He snapped the phone shut, handing it back to Dean with a face that spoke volumes on confidence.

"He's not coming, right?" Dean pressed.

"No, he's not," Christopher confirmed. "Um… Question?"

"What?"

"I'm going to die, aren't I?"

Sam put a hand on his shoulder. "Not for many years. Trust _us_."

Christopher looked up at him. "If you say so."

"We say so."

All three of them froze as the doorknob started to turn. The door creaked open slowly.

The Winchesters jumped to their feet. They raised shotguns and aimed, waiting.

Christopher pushed himself as far back against the wall as was physically possible.

The door swung wide open, revealing an empty doorway.

Until a single boot appeared. It stepped around the frame, rapidly followed by a tall, stunning, dark-haired beauty in jeans and a simple cotton top.

"Holy crap!" Dean blurted. "It's Xena!"

The face broke into a huge, warm smile, as the woman stopped just inside the doorway. She put her hands on her hips coyly. Her demeanour was anything but.

"Actually," she said, her voice rich and mellifluous enough to make all three men blink, "it's Larissa." She took one more step, putting a hand out behind her and pushing the door closed quietly. "Hi, Chris. How's it going?"

.

* * *

.

"You can put those guns down now," Urobach said with much amusement. "You have to know they won't work."

"I'm pretty sure this one will," shaggy Dean said cheerfully. "So it's Urobach?" he added, as if rolling it round his head under intense scrutiny.

The man held his hands out for show, grinning. "In the borrowed flesh," he nodded.

"Demon in charge of twenty legions? Ain't you supposed to be the collatin' eyes and ears of Hell - like an M for super-spies?"

"Yes! Well done! Oh, I forget - you're the version of Dean that can read," he allowed, shaking a finger at him.

"Version?" short-haired Sam prompted. "What does that mean?"

"Oh come on, boys," Urobach tutted. "You know all four of you are real, right? Have you worked out how yet? You, Alt Dean - you've got this, am I right?"

"We're _all_ actually real?" shaggy Dean dared.

"Oh come now - you think you're all real, don't pretend. What your tiny mind is trying to work out now is how. Let me help you - in _this_ universe, you didn't stop that gate to Hell getting opened. At least, _Sam and Dean_ didn't. And Lilith? She was never killed before she could start opening the sixty-six seals."

"What sixty-six seals?" short-haired Sam demanded. He looked at his brother, but Dean's mouth was working silently as something huge pounded through his brain at top speed. Sam looked back at the demon. "So one pair of us kept the gate closed, one pair didn't. How can there be two gates? And so what if there are?" Sam asked slowly, as if fearing the answer.

"Those two other yous didn't tell you?" Urobach grinned. "Well of course they didn't - they screwed the pooch on this one big time." He sighed, throwing his hands out in helplessness before slapping them to his pockets. "Ok, in simple terms… Those other Winchesters? They failed to stop demons escaping from the door to Hell. Lilith was one of them. She's started breaking the sixty-six seals needed to free Lucifer. If those two Hardy Boys don't stop her, she'll bring him back, he'll walk the Earth, and we'll have an apocalypse on our hands. Fun, ain't it?"

He paused, watching the two armed men digest this. Dean's eyes flicked to the carpet before fastening on the demon again.

"So we're here to help them?"

"No!" Urobach cried happily. "You're here because Larissa has a soft spot for you. At least, _one_ of you," he winked at Sam.

Sam's face turned confused with a dash of affronted. "But we stopped the gate to Hell opening," he asserted.

"_We_ did…" Dean muttered. Urobach waved his hand at him in an encouraging circle. "In _our_ universe. Fuck me - we're from another universe? Like a _parallel_ one?"

Sam snorted. "You've been watching too much TV."

"That's certainly true. But he's still right," Urobach stated flatly. "Which I just can't have. I've been all over town, cleaning up Larissa's little attempts to give people what they want for free. You two are now at the top of my list."

Dean's face sagged in a revelation of comprehension that Sam just did not share.

"What have _we_ got to do with this Larissa?" Sam asked, his temper as short as his hair.

.

* * *

.

"You can put those guns down, boys," Larissa said with charm and a warm light to her green eyes.

"Yeah, sure," Dean ground out. "You've come for Christopher, right? Well you can try."

"Dean, Dean, Dean," she sighed, shaking her head slowly. She walked to her left, around the large spray-painted devil's trap under the rug. The Winchesters exchanged a glance. "I've only come to check on him." She stopped, putting her hands in her back pockets. "Chris. How are you? Are you feeling better?"

Christopher just watched her for a long second. Then he managed to clear his throat. "Yes," he said quietly. "Thank you."

"That's good to know," she allowed, and she did indeed look pleased.

Dean shook his head as if confused. "Question," he said loudly. Larissa's gaze moved up him.

"You look taller with short hair," she observed, walking closer.

Dean raised the shotgun at her. "Stop right there."

"Oh Dean. I'm not here to hurt anyone. Tell me, have you met the other you yet?" She turned her eyes on Sam. "And Sam! There you are." She moved in on him slowly, putting her hand up and pushing Sam's shotgun to one side. "Really. Is this how you thank me?"

"Thank you for what?" he demanded.

"Do you know what I do for a living?" she asked, her voice thick with charm and a little regret.

"Sell contracts," Dean put in.

"No. I _grant wishes_," she amended. "Poor Chris here - he wanted to be cured so badly. And I thought, well, he's never done anything wrong, he's never hurt anyone, and he's a nice person. So why has he been cursed like this? It's not right. Angels won't step in, God's not listening, and his friends here topside can't help him. So he's my current project - he's my work in progress."

"What?" Christopher demanded. He got to his feet. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I've been in this town for a while, helping people just as I helped you. Except someone's going round undoing all my good works. I am not amused," she stated flatly. "I came to make sure you were still here, as all of my other projects have been wiped off the map." She paused, looking at Sam and Dean quickly. "At least, all projects except you three."

"Us three?" Sam interrupted. "Explain."

"You haven't met your doubles, have you?" she sighed sadly.

"Oh, we met 'em, lady," Dean countered. "We just have no idea where they came from or what they're doing here. Care to enlighten us?"

"First, tell me who the other demon in town is."

"What?" Sam gasped. "Why?"

"Because whoever it is, they're ruining everything," she said, and now anger started to creep into her tone. "And I'm not happy about that. I may need you _four_ to help me stop them."

"You want us," Dean said slowly, "to help you, a half-demon, stop a demon on your ass? Give me one good reason why!"

"Because," she said, turning to him and advancing within a foot of the man of the same height, "if he does succeed? He will wipe out all of you Winchesters. Not just you two, but all four." She paused, folding very unimpressed arms. "That do it for you?"

.

* * *

.

"Tell you what," Urobach said happily, "you two put down those guns and we'll talk some more. Hmm?"

"If they can't hurt you, why do you want us to put them down?" shaggy Dean asked with grating innocence that bordered on the obnoxious.

The demon's face fell and he began to fume. "I'm a damn sight older than you think I am, you sad excuse for a maggot, and it's all because I know when to be cautious."

"Still like to talk though," Dean observed mildly. "So tell us what you know."

"Screw you."

A shot rang out. Dean resisted his own urge to fire as a bullet filled with holy water slammed into Urobach's shirt.

He cried out and staggered backwards. Sam was already drawing a fresh bead. Dean moved back toward the bed. Urobach launched himself forwards, an angry bellow sparking fear in the younger Winchester.

Urobach missed Sam. He barrelled into Dean, sending the charmed Colt flying. Both men crashed to the carpet. Sam turned and fired holy water straight into the man's back.

Dean pushed up. He shoved at the grappling, writhing demon on top of him. Urobach was propelled to the side. Dean squeezed out and crawled out of his reach as fast as he could make his limbs work. Sam fired again. Urobach squirmed and spat anger at him.

The boys retreated slowly, Dean snatching up the long-barrelled Colt and getting his breath back. They looked down at the man fighting off pain and disorientation. He pushed himself around and up. He gulped in breath before running full-tilt at the pair of humans watching him.

He was yanked to a stop. He shouted in fury, looking down at his feet on the carpet. He noticed the faint pattern and his head snapped up quickly.

"Devil's trap," Sam said defiantly. "You demons are all the same. Keep you talking and eventually you'll get pissed and try and rush the issue."

"I'll tear you to pieces!" Urobach roared, flailing at the invisible wall.

"You'll stay right there and explain everything in small words," Dean breathed, shaking hair out of his eyes as he went to the bed. He dropped the Colt next to his duffle. He picked up the book of Latin, paging through quickly. "If you don't want to play nice, we send you home."

"You bastard! You wouldn't dare!"

"Oh, _I_ would," Sam snapped, taking the book from his shaggier brother. He lifted it slowly, beginning to mouth the words.

Urobach clenched his fists against the noise and began to snarl. Sam raised his voice as the demon howled and cursed at him from within his prison.

The book in his hands suddenly sprang up into the air. Sam gasped and took a step back - before he was whisked off his feet. He pounded into the wall, the sound of glass smashing as he fell to the carpet.

Dean watched with wide eyes. Then he turned back to the demon. He kept his eyes on him as he reached again for the Colt.

Urobach began to laugh. The man's mouth opened and out came the black smoke as Dean cocked the gun. But he paused, horrified, as the black smoke funnelled down through the carpet itself.

And then it was gone. The empty man slumped to the floor. The room stood quiet, not a single item stirring. Dean turned quickly to his brother, grabbing his shoulder and rolling him into his back. Blood covered his face, Sam himself out cold.

"Aw no," Dean winced. "No no no no no. Come on, Sam, wake up," he snapped, leaning over him and turning his chin up to see more clearly. Blood seeped over his hand and Dean stared at it. "No no no," he demanded angrily. "Sam! Sam!"

He felt for a pulse and found it thready. Grabbing his brother's jacket, Dean pulled him away from the crushed glass and sat him up, peering into his face. He used one hand to wipe some of the blood clear, trying to find the source.

"Sam! Can you hear me?" he demanded. "You're gonna be ok, dude."

Sam's head lolled back on his neck, oblivious and still.

"_Fuck fuck fuck_," Dean hissed to himself. He let his brother back to the floor carefully, looking round the motel room. He stared at his hands, covered in blood, and then reached into his pocket for his iPhone.

.

.


	9. As We Forgive Those Who Trespass Against

**NINE**

**As We Forgive Those Who Trespass Against Us**

.

"Why would this demon want us - all four of us - dead?" shaggy Sam asked, raising his shotgun again, albeit rather half-heartedly, at Larissa's top.

"It's so good to see you again, Sam," she beamed. "You don't remember me, do you? You wouldn't."

"What?" Sam breathed, noticing Dean's accusatory look. "I've never met you before."

"Oh, you have," she said sadly, her head tilting. "You made me _ache_."

Dean blinked, his eyebrows leaping for the safety of his hairline, his mouth rushing in quite the opposite direction, determined to put as much distance between it and them as possible. "Excuse me?" he asked, not even sure if he was ready for an explanation.

Sam shifted his feet, his eyebrows going through a million turning, twisting and flipping routines of which any one of a million Olympic athletes would be proud. "Um, seriously - I don't know you."

"You wouldn't remember," she sighed. "You were… really, _really_ drunk."

"Do I want to hear this?" Dean interrupted.

Larissa looked at him, but all he saw was sadness in her eyes. "Probably not," she allowed. "But it's not what you think."

A guitar suddenly blared and Dean jumped slightly. He spared Sam an uncomfortable glimpse before taking a step back and yanking the phone from his pocket.

"Oh - go ahead," Larissa nodded at him. "We have time."

Dean just frowned at her before opening the phone quickly. "Yeah'ello?" he offered, sniffing as he watched Larissa study his movements. "Whoa whoa whoa - slow down," he said quickly, now glaring at Sam. "What? He did what? Ok - calm down! Hey hey, X-5, _calm down_!" he cried angrily. "Alright, now. You listening? Get him in the car. Address?" He looked up at shaggy Sam expectedly.

"212 Cedar Boulevard," he supplied quietly.

"212 Cedar Boulevard," Dean repeated hastily. "Got it? Right. Get over here, and do not stop for anything, you hear me?" The line went dead and Dean looked at it, before closing the phone over slowly. He hefted it in his hand, looking at it.

"What happened?" Sam asked darkly.

Short-haired Dean looked up. "That was Mini-Me. He says a demon just turned up, looking for Larissa, here."

"What?" she asked quickly. "Did Dean get a name?"

"He didn't say. He's on his way - and he says their Sam is hurt."

"Is it bad?" Sam demanded, alarmed.

"I don't know! We'll know more when he gets here." He looked at the half-demon, watching him with worried eyes. "Are you really on Christopher's side, here?" he demanded roughly.

"Yes."

"And you're on the run from this demon?"

"Yes."

Dean pondered, backing away a few steps to stare at her full-length.

"She could have killed us by now," Sam pointed out quietly.

Dean's face, dark and undecided, looked over at Larissa. "Why?"

"Why what?" she asked slowly, folding her arms.

"Why you doing this? Why you helping humans?"

"Because my father was one. And my mother spent centuries torturing him for it in Hell. It wasn't exactly the family environment I should have had growing up."

"You ever tortured anyone?" Dean snapped suddenly.

"No."

"_Don't lie!_" Dean exploded.

Christopher and Sam jumped slightly, spooked. Larissa took a step back, her hands up in surrender.

"Look, I knew who you were, Dean. I knew what helping Sam would cause," she said quickly. "But I didn't care."

Dean's chin tilted and he took a step toward her.

"Ok - ok," she said quickly, and she sounded for all the world as if she were afraid he would advance on her again. "I did care - I wanted to piss people off."

"What people?"

"Demons, alright!" she cried angrily. "I have spent my _life_ - and that's a hell of a long time for you humans and you know it - being half of everything that the other side hates! So yeah, I decided to side with humans and piss off the demons who treat me as half-breed trash! I decided to give people things they could use! I don't even charge for it! And you know why?" she shouted.

"Tell me!"

"Because it's the ultimate insult to a demon, _that's_ why!" she shouted back. "I use my demon powers to do _good_ things and I don't exact any penance for it! Hell should be racking up new souls, but instead all they get is tales of people avoiding cancer, repossession, bankruptcy, Alzheimer's - now come on, who have I hurt? Apart from the family on my mother's side!"

Dean paused, his eyes still baleful but his feet solid where they stood. "What did you mean? When you said you knew who I was?" he growled.

"You're Dean Winchester, everyone down there knows you!" she shot back. "How _bravely_ you sold your soul for your brother, just to bring him back to life! How you refused to do anything but die so he wouldn't be claimed for your defaulting! I heard about how you were brought in down there, Dean, and I _wept_!"

"You expect me to believe--"

"It wasn't right! It was engineered! It was everything I hate about my demon side!" she raged. "So I went to Illinois and I met this drunken wreck at the bar!"

Sam swallowed nervously. Larissa turned on him, her head tilting. "You broke my heart, Sam," she said, suddenly quiet. "You were sitting there, all alone… I don't think you'd been sober in… days."

"I don't remember," he managed.

"I told you at the time that you wouldn't," she said, smiling sadly. "I told you I could do one thing for you. You offered to sell me your soul, you mutton-head." She looked at her boots, shaking her head slightly. "I refused to take it. I said there wasn't a demon walking the Earth - or underneath it - that would take your soul for what you wanted."

"Let me guess - I asked you for Dean back."

Larissa drew in a fragile breath, putting her hands in her rear jeans pockets. "No," she said guilelessly. "You asked me to… You wanted to go back. You wanted to do things differently. You wanted to never leave your family to go to Stanford. You wanted to be there for your father, your brother…" She looked up. "I told you I couldn't quite pull that off."

"And then?" Christopher asked briskly. The two Winchesters looked at him in accusation. "Oh. Sorry," he managed, floating back a step.

Sam and Dean looked back at the half-demon.

"And then," she said slowly, "I said I could do something else for you. I could show you what would have happened if things had gone as you wanted."

"So those two other us-es - those two X-5s - are they _real_?" Dean blurted.

"As you are," she shrugged. "I just shunted them from one reality to another."

"Whoa there, horsey," Dean protested, one hand up. "You did _what_?"

"I picked up those two lovely Winchesters - whose hair suits them both much better, by the way - and dropped them into this universe."

"So somewhere there's a universe missing its Winchesters?" Christopher offered quietly.

"Exactly," she nodded.

"I've heard of a village missing its idiot, but this is just nutty," Dean accused.

"You are joking," Sam stated in a tone so flat it could have been used to resurface a major road.

Larissa looked affronted. "No, I am not joking. I did it all for _you_, Sam, all of it. You were so down, so crushed, so pathetic--"

"I get it," he interrupted.

"It took me a while to figure out how to do it, but I did it."

"From another universe?" Dean pressed. "Bullcrap."

"Hey, your angels jump you back and forth in time and you just swallow it," she snapped defensively. "Don't begrudge me a little parallel universe jumping."

"Sounds a little too _Star Trek_ to me, Uhura," Dean shot back with a snide lip-curl.

"Glad as I am that you're out topside again," she said stiffly, "I'm more glad Sam could finally meet one of his other selves."

"Why?" he asked carefully.

"So you could see what I've done for you, Sam," she urged, putting a hand up and stroking slightly at the lapel on his jacket. "I did this for _you_."

"Yeah - and why was that again? I'm not exactly liking the idea of a demon wanting to help me," Sam challenged.

"Oh yeah? Since when?" Dean interrupted.

Sam huffed at him. "Later." He turned back to Larissa. "Explain."

"You and I share certain… choices," she allowed. "And you know what I'm talking about. I do what you wish you could - I use demonic powers to help people. I've seen you struggle with this and I just want to look out for someone with the same hardship."

"Then take his powers away and piss off," Dean offered.

"Dean," Sam tutted at him. He looked back at Larissa, his eyes softening and begging her to pull something from her bag of explanation that could make it all alright. "And?"

"And to show you that your whole dream isn't needed. _You're_ all you need - you're smart, determined, driven, strong - everything you already need to be."

Sam smiled at her, hoping it was coming out sympathetic. Judging by the look his brother was sending his way, it was looking hopelessly cornered.

"I'd give you two some private time if I could," Dean grunted, glancing at Christopher to find he was looking at his feet. "But we have bigger things going on. Mini-Me is on his way over with their Sam. He might know the name of your demon so we can trap him and kill him."

"And me too?" she asked knowingly, letting go of Sam's jacket.

"We'll work that out once the Big Bad is dead," Sam said quickly, earning him a judgemental chin-jut from his brother. "We will. Let's just deal with demons that want to kill us first."

Christopher raised a hand. "I'm with Sam."

"So am I," Larissa smiled slyly.

Dean's eyes rolled faster than a Coney Island 'coaster as he huffed. "Fine," he bit out. "But just for the record? I'm not buying any of this."

He pushed past Larissa and walked over to the window, looking down.

Christopher cleared his throat quietly. "Uhm… Larissa?" he asked.

"Yes, Chris."

"Well… Richard's not involved in this, right? I mean… the demon doesn't know about him?"

"He might," she nodded. "But he won't bother with him until he's wiped six of us off the face of the Earth. After all, _we_ are what he came for."

"Oh," he allowed, a little uncertainly.

"Sam - car," Dean called from the window. He noticed something that set his face alight with indignation and anger. "Son of a bitch," he bit out, hurrying to the door. He flung it open. "You stay here with these two, I'll get down there."

"What? No, I'll--"

"Sam! Stay!" Dean hurled. Then he was out of the door, the wood bouncing shut behind him.

Larissa cocked her head at the taller man. "You're cursing him right now for giving you orders," she said quietly. "But honestly, you wouldn't want him replaced by that other one."

"How do you know what I'd want?" he asked, just as quietly.

"All the time you were bitching about him not being the same, after he came back from Hell?" she nodded slowly. "Yeah, I kept watch over you while I was working out how to pull this stunt for you. Well now he's back, right? Now he's really Dean again."

"Yeah. And?"

"What if he wasn't. What if he never came all the way back, Sam? What if he was prepared to sit back and watch for the rest of his life, like the other Dean?"

"Yeah - and why did the _other_ Dean decide to do that?"

"Choices, Sam. And strength isn't always about being the first to jump into the fray."

Sam opened his mouth, then closed it again. They heard a familiar throat clearing and turned to look at Christopher.

"You mean… Dean's been to Hell? And come back?" he ventured.

"Ah… yeah," Sam allowed. "Freaking you out yet?"

"Oh Sam," Christopher sighed, "you two lost me when you were laying salt everywhere."

Sam allowed himself a small smile, and Larissa shot him a grin. Sam's smile twisted into worry at her apparent appreciation of his mood, and he turned and went to the window quickly. He looked out but could see nothing.

The door was shoved open abruptly and the two Deans shuffled in, carrying a bloodied and unconscious Sam between them.

"What the hell?" shaggy Sam demanded, crossing to the door and closing it quickly.

"S-Sam - he looks like you!" Christopher managed.

"Get more salt on that door, Sam!" short-haired Dean ordered. He and his shaggy double carried their charge to the far wall, setting him down gently on the carpet. Short-haired Dean was already kneeling in his FBI suit as shaggy Sam went to the large salt can by the window, taking it back to the door and filling in the scattered line.

Christopher pointed at bearded Dean in confusion, then looking at the FBI-suited double. He thought furiously for a second, before Larissa took his arm and pulled him out of the way helpfully. He looked at her for help but she simply shook her head.

Short-haired Dean felt for a pulse on the beaten Sam on the floor. He hissed something and turned the battered head slowly. A hand clamped on his wrist and he started before turning to look at the shaggier Dean next to him.

"He's _my_ brother," shaggy Dean said darkly.

The two Deans exchanged a long look fraught with will and determination. At last the Dean in the FBI suit let go, pulling away. Shaggy Dean looked back at his brother on the floor as short-haired Dean got to his feet. He patted the shoulder of his double once before going back to the window.

"Sam?" shaggy Dean havered, turning his head to look at him, wiping trickling blood from his face. "Hey, bro? You with me?" His brother did not reply. Dean bit his lip, trying again. "You got a million tiny cuts that are bleeding like fuck, that's all. You gotta wake up, dude."

Again, there was no response and shaggy Dean put his hand out to his brother's neck. He squeezed his eyes closed in resolve as he felt the extremely feeble pulse under his fingers. He wet very parched lips and cleared his throat, opening his eyes resolutely. "You do realise that if you're out of it, that other Old Man Dean will take charge, right? And we don't want that, do we?"

Sam's eyes fluttered but ended up as closed as before.

Christopher came over slowly. "Hey," he nodded, kneeling next to Dean. "Can I help at all? I mean, it sounds like it's all cos of me that you're here anyway. There are spare bedsheets in the cupboard over there."

"Thanks," shaggy Dean nodded. "Go get 'em."

Christopher stood and crossed the room to the cupboard. He opened it up and began going through clean white cotton, sorting through for something he could tear up.

Shaggy Dean looked up and across the room. "Hey, you, Old Man," he called at the Dean by the window.

Dean turned in his FBI suit, looking at him. "What?"

"Ah - got any, like, First Aid supplies?"

"In the Impala," short-haired Dean replied. "Sorry, kid. Use what we got."

Shaggy Sam eyed his bleeding double on the floor, before turning to his brother. "What do we do now?" he asked quietly. "We've just massed everyone that demon wants in one place. Convenient."

.

.


	10. Thank You Sir, Please Come Again

**TEN**

**Thank You Sir, Please Come Again**

.

"Dean?" Larissa called nervously. Two heads turned and looked at her. "That one," she said, pointing at the shaggy-haired version currently taking pieces of torn up sheet from Christopher, in between anxiously checking the face of his prone brother.

"What is it, sweetheart? I'm a little busy here!"

"Yes, I can see that," she allowed. "I have one question."

"What?" Shaggy Dean used a small square to wipe blood from his brother's face. Sam grunted at the touch, and Christopher pulled Dean's hand away.

"He must have some small pieces of glass in there," he advised.

"I don't care about those pieces - what about the shitload of blood coming from the _back_ of his head?" shaggy Dean demanded.

"Give me that," Christopher instructed. He began to carefully soak up the tiny drops of blood from the Winchester's skin, turning his head to try to check for embedded glass.

"Dean, what was the name of the demon?" Larissa pressed. "Did you get his name?"

"Do I look like a give a shit!" he shouted over his shoulder. "My brother's _dying_ here and you want me to think about something that wants you dead? Why should I care what happens to _you_?"

"Dean - look, I'm sorry about Sam, I really am," Larissa said earnestly, beginning to walk over to the shaggy-haired Winchester kneeling on the floor.

He turned and flung an arm out, pointing at her.

"This is all your fault! If you hadn't brought us to this fucked up version of the world none of this would have happened!"

"I know, I--"

"Don't you come near me, or so help me I _will_ fuckin' kill you, Christopher or no Christopher!" he raged.

She froze, then turned as she felt shaggy-haired Sam's hand in the crook of her elbow. He pulled her back with him, retreating to the window and his brother. He looked at the Dean in the FBI suit, noticing the anger, or perhaps adrenaline, on his face.

"X-5," short-haired Dean called clearly.

Shaggy Dean simply bent over his brother, his hand going under his neck as he muttered to him, pushing Christopher away. "C'mon, Sam, c'mon," he pleaded. He felt at the pulse, knew it was becoming weaker and weaker.

"Dean!" short-haired Dean ordered. "We could be sitting ducks here. Did you get the damn name or didn't you?"

"Yeah, I got it," shaggy Dean glowered through clenched teeth, looking back over his shoulder at the room. The two FBI-suited Winchesters watched his face turn from a warning to a promise. "His name's Urobach. And as soon as I've summoned his sorry ass, I'm gonna tear him a new one before I _fuckin' carve him into pieces_!"

Shaggy-haired Sam pushed his brother back and walked over to the other two Winchesters. He crouched next to the Dean currently fretting over his brother.

"Dean," he said quietly. "We can do this, we can summon this Urobach and bring him here. But we need you to help us."

"I am not letting my brother die again," Dean bit out.

Sam looked down at the man who seemed identical to himself, save the hair awash with streaming blood. He looked back at the bearded version of Dean, opening his mouth to say something, _anything_ that might convey how sorry he was.

"Get away from me, man," Dean growled, but his voice was thick with worry, not anger, this time.

Sam got up quickly, retreating to his brother.

"How bad is it?" FBI Dean breathed, nearly a whisper. Sam shook his head ominously. "_Damn it_," FBI Dean hissed, turning to the window. "Great. That's just friggin' _great_."

"No no no no," shaggy Dean grunted suddenly, grabbing his brother's shirtfront. "Sam, c'mon, man! Don't do this! Don't you die on me again!"

Christopher, Larissa, Sam and Dean. They looked around slowly, fearing what they might see.

What they got was scruffy Dean, his arm around a limp, blood-covered Sam. His other hand was supporting his head, but Sam's eyes were closed. Dean squeezed his eyes and mouth closed very, very tightly, his face as stone. He opened his eyes after a moment, steady and calm.

Sam's eyes fluttered. Dean sucked in a breath that told tales of withheld tears, swallowing them and managing an edgy smile, more fragile than butterfly's wings.

"Hey bro," he whispered. He kept Sam's head up and his bleary eyes on him. "You stay with me, this time. Ok?"

Sam's face twitched. His eyes sank closed. His features slackened until Dean shifted his hand, touching where there should have been a pulse in his brother's neck.

It was feeble. It feathered into nothing, leaving him sat on his knees with a dead brother in his arms.

"I did it again," he whispered. "I let you die again."

The two Winchesters in their fake FBI suits refused to look at each other. They studied the carpet for a long moment.

Shaggy Dean gulped in a silent breath, letting his lifeless brother back to the carpet. He got up abruptly, wiping his face with the back of a shaking hand, inadvertently smearing blood over his cheek. He managed to breathe out but it brought a grunt of effort that belied the mostly hidden tears.

He whirled around suddenly, his crazed eyes boring into Larissa.

"You," he snarled, pointing at her. "You can undo this. If you can save Christopher, you can bring Sam back."

"I can't--"

"_Do it, bitch!_" he raged, advancing on her.

"Dean - please - listen to me--"

But shaggy-haired Dean ploughed toward her. He was caught by the arms as something black shot into his line of attack. He looked up to see himself in an FBI suit gripping his upper arms tightly.

"Leave her," short-haired Dean ordered.

"_Lemme go!_" shaggy Dean seethed at top volume, struggling. "Let me go! She did this! She killed my brother!"

Short-haired Dean managed to keep the other him steady and upright. It was impossible not to look into the tortured eyes, screaming at him to help, to understand, to fix it somehow.

"Easy, man, _easy_," short-haired Dean urged. "I know how you feel, really I do--"

"Then get the fuck off me!" his bearded copy raged, but he could not co-ordinate himself enough to think of a way to get free of the organised Winchester. "I'll kill her! I swear--"

"Hey! Hey!" Dean shouted into his face. "We are not killing her yet! We need her to bring Sam back, right? Right?" he shouted. "Listen to me!" he hurled, struggling to keep the fighting man in his grasp. "Hey! You calm the Hell down and _listen_! We need her to bring Sam back! She can bring - Sam - _back_!"

Shaggy Dean slowed, his struggling become weaker and weaker.

"If you kill her, she can't help us. And Christopher dies too," FBI Dean pressed.

"I don't care," shaggy Dean whispered, his strength apparently gone. "I don't care about her, or any of you. I just want Sam back."

FBI Dean looked over his twin's shoulder at the still form of the man who looked like his own brother. He took a deep breath, looking back at his double.

"I'm gonna let you go now. You are not going to harm Larissa. You get me?" he said sharply.

"Whatever, man," bearded Dean managed.

Dean nodded, releasing his arms and taking a step back. Scruffy Dean didn't look at him, instead keeping his eyes on the carpet. He backed up one, wiping a hand across his nose and controlling trembling limbs.

FBI Dean turned to Larissa, who was still staring at them both as if they were about to leap on her with large charmed blades.

"So," FBI Dean announced. "Do your thing. Make a deal with X-5 here and bring his Sam back."

Larissa swallowed and composed herself. "I can't."

Shaggy Sam took a step closer to her, his head tilting in mistrust. "You _can't_?" he demanded. "And we were just starting to think perhaps a half-demon could tell the truth."

"I _am _telling the truth! I can't make deals with Sam or Dean - those two," she said quietly. "Not here. They have to be at home. They have to be in their own world. This isn't theirs. I can't make deals with them."

"Now is a real crappy time to be following the rules," FBI Dean put in harshly.

"Please," said a quiet voice, and they turned to look at bearded Dean. He was staring at the carpet, his eyes wide. "Please. Just bring him back. I'll do whatever you want. I'll _pay_ whatever you want. Just bring him back."

"I can't."

"You can. It's just that you _won't_," he observed calmly, looking up with a slowness born of resignation. He fixed his glassy, tearing eyes on her. A tear escaped his left eye, sliding down his face until it encountered the smear of his brother's blood. It ran across the top edge and down, disappearing in the bristles below. "You can't make deals that don't demand a price, but you do. You can't cross over into other worlds and bring people back, but you do. So do this. Please. I'm begging you," he added, his voice quiet, calm, collected. It dropped to a whisper: "_Please_."

Larissa's eyes, full of water and anguish, stayed caught in his, unable to tear away from the pain so clearly written in his green windows. But she shook her head slowly.

There was a long silence. Shaggy Sam looked around the room, finding Christopher and for some reason, latching onto him. He realised it was better than looking at either man who appeared to be his brother. Christopher rubbed a hand over his lips, squeezing his eyes shut determinedly. Sam didn't blame him.

"You can't make a deal with him," FBI Dean said quietly, "but you can with _me_."

Scruffy Dean looked at him sharply, dashing water from his face. "What?" he dared.

FBI Dean didn't look at him. Instead he turned on Larissa with an air of cold confidence. "You can make a deal with me," he repeated.

"I shouldn't--"

"You brought him here," short-haired Dean interrupted loudly, "you did this all for Sam, you said. Well now you've _killed_ Sam - that Sam. He's _dead_, and it's all because of you. You know what annoys the Hell out of me?" FBI Dean demanded, walking closer as he pointed at her vindictively. "It's that you thought you were doing all this to piss off your demon family. Well congratulations, drama queen, cos they're just having the biggest laugh over you getting one of your little projects ganked. This Urobach must be splitting his sides over this one. Talk about giving someone enough rope!"

"Why do you want him back?" she countered bravely. "Tell me the truth."

"He's not my brother. Hell, I don't even _like_ him - if you ask me, he's a dick. But he's still Sam. And we need him if we got any chance of killing this Urobach. You understand _that_, right?" he sneered.

She wet her lips slowly, looking past him to the other Dean, currently watching her, holding his breath. She looked back at Dean in his fake FBI suit.

"You _will_ bring Sam back. For me," he warned.

"For you? I could do a lot of things," she managed, hoping she sounded more blasé than she felt.

"That better be a yes," Dean growled.

"Yes, it is. I'll bring Alternate Universe Sam back, and it'll be _your_ wish."

"What's the price?" shaggy Sam asked suddenly.

"It's not a contract, there is no price. But I'll take a personal gratuity for granting a wish - demons get them for contracts, I want one," she smiled slyly.

"Do it," Dean instructed. She closed on him but he put his hand up. "Sam first."

"Why Dean," she pouted, "you don't trust anyone, do you?"

"Especially not demons or their half-breed daughters."

"Fine," she huffed. She turned and waved a hand in the direction of the fallen Sam. His eyes blinked open, his scruffy brother hurrying over to land on his knees on the carpet by his side.

"Hey dude, just wait a second," he gasped. "Slowly."

Larissa turned to Dean. "Well?"

He didn't hesitate. He put his hand in her hair. She grabbed the lapels on his FBI suit, yanking him against her and kissing him with enthusiasm.

Shaggy Dean helped his brother to sit up slowly, Christopher patting the worried shoulder. Shaggy Sam watched the man who looked like him glance around the room as if he hadn't just died and come back - for the second time. Shaggy Sam looked back at his own brother.

FBI Dean was pushing Larissa back abruptly, but she was grinning as she licked a lip.

"Wow. If I'd known you were that good I would have offered you a wish or two long ago."

Dean eyed her suspiciously. "Considering it was Violation By Half-Demon Tongue, it could have been worse."

"Freebie?" she requested, stroking the lapel under her fingers. She felt the Winchester lean on her for a long moment. She aimed herself at his mouth but he lifted his chin deliberately.

"If you were all human," he sneered.

She pouted and let him go with a slight push. He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand before looking over at the short-haired Sam. He still seemed to be covered in blood but it appeared dried. Scruffy Dean was helping him to his feet, dusting his brother down as if he were five years old.

"Quit it," short-haired Sam said irritably, pushing him away. He looked up and around the room, noticing everyone staring at him. "What? What did I miss?"

"You died. Again," his brother began solemnly, but then his face split into the widest grin of relief anyone in the room had ever seen. "But you're better now."

Short-haired Sam frowned at him, then looked over at the others. "So are we finding this demon guy and toasting him?"

"Are we ever," shaggy Sam breathed. "We need to find out how to find this guy."

"We won't need to," bearded Dean said, pre-occupied, as he pulled Sam's jacket straight, arranging his shirt neatly for him. He patted the outsides of his shoulders and stepped back to inspect his resurrected brother.

"Um, why's that?" Christopher asked, back in control of his voice.

"We just dangle the half-breed here outside of some salt. He'll find _her_," shaggy Dean replied with an evil grin.

.

* * *

**_Thanks for reading! I do my victory dance every time I get a review - thanks for your time and patience. :)_**


	11. Bring On The Dancing Girls

**ELEVEN**

**Bring On The Dancing Girls And Put The Champagne On Ice**

.

"So you got the Evil Spock beard _and_ the asshole role in all this?" FBI Dean asked shortly.

Shaggy Dean just looked at him. "Ah c'mon, Old Man. Do you have a better way to get Urobach in here without it being suspicious?"

"We summon him," shaggy Sam said deliberately clearly.

"Yeah, right! Why not just put a huge sign on the door there that says 'Plan A'?" shaggy Dean shot back. "Just let her step out of the magic circle and watch the bastard appear!"

"Whoa there, X-5," short-haired Dean interrupted, his hands up. "First of all, if Larissa here gets ganked after all, Christopher and your Sam die - again."

Shaggy Dean appraised his double for a long moment.

"Right?" FBI Dean pressed, confused.

"Right, yes, right," bearded Dean nodded swiftly. "Yes. Absolutely."

"So we're not letting her get ganked, right?"

"Nope. Not even a little," bearded Dean replied cheerfully.

"So why not just summon him?"

"Cos when Sam and me summoned Larissa before, Urobach turned up. He's watching the demonic two-way and butting in whenever he feels like it," shaggy Dean informed him. "He's gonna know the second we start trying to reel him in, and he's gonna fuck us over like he did last time."

"What's that supposed to mean?" shaggy Sam asked.

"We summoned Larissa. He arrived first, waiting for Larissa to arrive. When she didn't, he took it out on us," shaggy Dean tutted. "Use your brain, ass-hat."

"I wasn't summoned," Larissa said suddenly. The room paused before turning to look at her. "I wasn't," she said innocently.

"You _are_ Larissa, right?" shaggy Dean asked slowly.

"Yes."

"Your mom was Rubicante?"

"Still is."

"Well he did the whole ritual thing," short-haired Sam put it. "I was stood right next to him while he did it."

"Well it never reached me," she shrugged.

Shaggy Sam and bearded Dean exchanged a glance before an horrific thought struck both of them.

"Holy crap," they blurted together, earning them strange looks from everyone assembled.

"What?" she demanded.

"Urobach," shaggy Sam nodded. "He must be some real higher-level demon."

"He _is_ supposed to be the head of the department of communications down in the The Bad Fire," shaggy Dean added confidently. "Maybe he's eavesdropping, butting in, breaking down communications on us… I guess if he's the chief, he can pull whatever he wants."

There was a long, worried silence. Christopher stepped forward, putting his hand up slowly. Larissa noticed and smiled at him with encouragement.

"Ahh… While we're on the subject of department bosses… Can I just ask… You two aren't really FBI, are you?" he havered.

The suited Winchesters exchanged a glance. "No," they admitted together.

Christopher nodded. "So… if I've got this straight… You two aren't FBI, but you know a lot about killing demons. These two," he added, nodding at the blood-smeared brothers, "are somehow alternate universe versions of you."

"No," short-haired Sam said firmly. "_They're_ alternate universe versions of _us_."

Shaggy Dean leaned his bearded chin close to his brother's ear, his face averted from the other Winchesters. "We're in their world, bro."

"Doesn't matter," his brother asserted.

"Well, whatever - yes, to all intents and purposes, we're all doubles, ok?" shaggy Sam nodded at Christopher, still struggling with giant problems behind his brown eyes.

"Right," he said feebly. "So you're… Sam Winchester. And… he's also Sam Winchester."

"Yes."

"And you're Dean Winchester… and he's Dean Winchester, too?"

"Except I'm the improvement," bearded Dean smirked.

"You're the after-market piss-poor replacement part," FBI-suited Dean said with a wide, unctuous smile.

"I've killed more demons you'll ever see," shaggy Dean shot back.

"Oh yeah? How many years did _you_ spend in Hell?" short-haired Dean retaliated.

"Which one of us has killed Lilith and which hasn't?" shaggy Dean snapped, prompting his brother to start to raise his hands.

"Which one of us has let the world slide and his baby brother take all the crap?" FBI Dean growled. _His_ brother put a hand up to his elbow to stop him.

"_Some_one needs to get laid more!"

"Dude, all those chicks you've had? Guess who got there _first_!"

"So _that's_ why they were all so grateful for a guy who knew what he was doing!"

"Like you've even read chapter four," FBI Dean snapped.

"Done it - with yoghurt!"

"Honey!"

"Chapter thirty-three with chocolate ice-cream sauce!" shaggy Dean hurled, making his brother pull on his arm to try to butt in. He was unsuccessful.

"Forty-two - with ice-cubes! _And_ a strawberry!" short-haired Dean argued, pointing at his bearded double with vindication.

"Whoa!" shaggy Dean blurted, then stopped short. "--Se-seriously?"

"Oh yeah," FBI Dean allowed, starting to grin.

"Whoa," shaggy Dean breathed again, apparently suitably impressed. He stared at the carpet, lost for a long, long moment. "Whoa." Then he looked up at the man who looked like him. "And did she--"

"Yup."

"With the ice cubes?"

"Yup."

"And the--"

"Oh yes."

"Not with the top?" shaggy Dean managed, and if his brother didn't know better, he would have thought his legs were shaking inside his jeans just slightly.

FBI Dean tilted his head forward for emphasis. "_And_ with the top," he grinned. In fact, a more evil display of satisfaction had never before crossed a human's face.

"Whoa," shaggy Dean breathed for the fourth time, apparently cast adrift on an entire ocean of hero worship. "Fuck me."

Christopher put his hand up abruptly.

"Figuratively speaking," shaggy Dean added quickly, but Christopher just smiled.

"Amusing as Karma Sutra discussions are, if that's even what you're on about, could we work out how to find this demon guy? I mean, I've never even met him, but he gives me the creeps."

Both Deans wiped the amusement from their faces and cleared their throats, politely ignoring how they did it together.

Shaggy Sam lifted his chin. "Well I say we set this place up and do as your Dean wants," he said bravely. The room turned and looked at him.

"Agreed. We go with X-5 here," Dean nodded.

"And why do I get to be the X-5 again?" shaggy Dean asked, but he still seemed amused.

"Cos you got the sorry-ass hair, that's why," short-haired Dean allowed.

"Whatever you say, Old Man," he replied politely, clapping his double on the shoulder as he passed him. "So we accidentally-on-purpose let Larissa here go walkabout outside the salt and traps?"

"No," short-haired Sam said firmly. "I say we just summon him--"

"Show of hands," shaggy Sam interrupted with more than a little impatience. "Who's for the planned accident?"

Two Deans, a half-demon and Christopher raised palms immediately.

Shaggy Sam nodded. "Fine. We go with Dean's - uhm, _your_ Dean's idea," he said, watching his short-haired double scowl at him. "Hey, it's done. Let's just get on with it."

"Fine," short-haired Sam fumed. "Dean - break out the weapons."

"Aye-aye, Captain," shaggy Dean called over his shoulder, already reaching a hand in his pocket. "I'll go down to the car and bring up a few things."

.

* * *

.

Christopher hovered near the window, watching the street and the two black cars parked on opposite sides of the road.

"So I guess it's been pretty weird for everyone all round," he offered the room at large.

Shaggy Sam looked up from his loading of his Taurus handgun. "You could say that," he agreed. "But we have a way out of this - for everyone."

"Assuming Demon Xena here sends everyone home when we do her this favour," short-haired Dean grunted, half to himself. "Which, by the way," he added more loudly, turning to look at Larissa, "we're only doing because it helps Chris and their dick of a Sam."

"Whatever," she replied nervously, turning away.

Shaggy Sam eyed his brother before looking up, checking the other two Winchesters were far away across the room, similarly conferring as they loaded weapons. He cleared his throat and turned back to his own brother. "Um… Dean?" he asked softly.

"Hmm."

"The other me… I mean, Sam."

"Hmm."

"Well… is there nothing you like about him?"

Dean paused, considering his shaggy-haired lanky brother with confusion. "Meaning?"

"Well I mean… he's me, right?"

"No, Sammy, he's not," Dean scoffed, looking back at his hands loading his own Colt 1911 with holy water rounds. "He's nothing like you."

"He's identical to me."

"He _looks_ like you, sure. But hey, Val Kilmer looked like Jim Morrison in _The Doors_. Don't make you the same person."

Sam's eyebrows knitted together as if a sweater were the only thing that would save the world. "But…"

"What now?"

"Well… He's like… More like you. Shoots things, gets the job done."

Short-haired Dean dropped his Colt to his side, looking up at his brother with frustration. "He's nothing like us - either of us. And since when have I ever got the job done? Unless you count letting Dad die, letting you die, screwing the pooch in Hell and breaking the first seal that was supposed to stay closed tighter than jailbait's legs?"

Sam didn't even bother to protest over his brother's overly course expression. _What bothers me more is why he's suddenly chalking up what he thinks are his failures_. "Look - Dean - no matter what you may think it looks like, you have not done so badly. We can still fix this."

Dean's mouth opened but he looked away resolutely.

"You two girls done hugging each other better?" came a familiar gruff voice from behind Dean. He turned quickly enough for his brother to catch his arm to prevent inadvertent acts of war. Shaggy Dean just looked back at him. "Cos we kinda got work to do. If you're too busy, Old Man, I'll do it myself."

The Dean in the FBI suit glared at his bearded double, his eyes enough to make him stand back one.

"You ready?" he demanded, pulling his arm free from shaggy Sam's grip.

"Always," shaggy Dean admitted, taking another step back.

"Then let's get this started, X-5. The sooner this is over, the sooner you two can get home." FBI Dean stared at him until shaggy Dean backed away, turning to walk across the room.

Sam cleared his throat quietly and short-haired Dean risked a look at him. "Do me a favour," he said pleasantly - rather _too_ pleasantly - "make sure I don't shoot that kid before this is all over."

Sam nodded, letting a tiny smile cross his lips. "Fine. Just keep an eye on Larissa. I don't trust these two."

"What's the worse they could do, make a deal with this Urobach douche?" Dean breathed, making sure his voice did not carry. "It's not like they're going to kill her, in case it kills their Sam, right?"

"Mmm," Sam havered.

"Come on then, ladies," shaggy Dean called from across the room.

The suited Winchesters turned to find Larissa looking extremely nervous, Christopher at her side.

"So what do I do?" she asked. "You are going to kill him, right?"

"Oh yeah," shaggy Dean asserted, lifting his right hand.

"The Colt!" shaggy Sam blurted. "You got the Colt?"

"Don't even think about it," shaggy Dean said firmly, appraising the long-barrelled pistol in his hand. "It's mine. Dad gave it me."

"What?" short-haired Dean protested. "You had the damn gun the whole time and you didn't tell us?"

"Why would I tell you? And how come you two don't have one?" shaggy Dean shot back.

The FBI suited brothers looked at each other.

"Anyways - um, Larissa," shaggy Sam said quickly. "We'll come with you - all you have to do is walk down the street. We'll be around."

"And why is Urobach going to take the bait?" she asked gingerly.

"Because Christopher will be with you," short-haired Dean interrupted. "Two marks in the same place at the same time? He'll be there alright."

"Great," she sighed.

"I have to go too?" Christopher havered.

"Yeah. Look at it this way - it gives us a chance to shoot the fucker," shaggy Dean nodded.

"Please tell me you're a good shot with that?" short-haired Dean accused.

"Better than you'll ever be," he smiled with enough arrogance to coat an Impala.

"Riiiiight. Let's get this show on the road," short-haired Dean breathed, apparently completely unconvinced.

.

* * *

_So spin that wheel, cut that pack and roll those loaded dice! Bring on the dancing girls and put the champagne on ice…_

**Happy holidays, everyone!**


	12. Here's A Demon, There's A Demon

**TWELVE **

**Here's A Demon, There's A Demon, And Another Little Demon…**

.

Larissa hooked her arm through Christopher's as they stepped out of the entrance to the building. They turned left, beginning their slow walk to the end of the street.

Two black suited Winchesters ensconced themselves in the hedges running down the side of the street, disappearing into the foliage like sugar in hot coffee.

Two more Winchesters went around the back of the house, using the parallel street to keep pace with the half-demon and her human companion. Shaggy Dean kept the Colt Paterson in his right hand, the gun itself dangling behind him where a passer-by would not see it.

Short-haired Sam spared him a glance as they waited at the far end of the house, watching through the alley as Larissa and Christopher passed the other end.

"So you're ready for this?" Sam asked quietly.

"Am I ever. The dude killed you. It's my turn," shaggy Dean grunted.

"You sure?"

"Bite me."

Short-haired Sam looked at him for a second, then began walking on to keep up with their targets.

"You know, you talk to that other Dean too much," Sam observed. "It's making you… weird."

"What do you mean, weird?" shaggy Dean asked, affronted.

"Like… Since when have you been all gung-ho to kill a demon?"

"I killed the one that killed Mom," Dean pointed out.

"Yeah, and then what? You've never really cared about killing anything that doesn't hurt you since then."

"Maybe this is different."

"How?" short-haired Sam asked.

There was no answer and he looked at his brother, walking next to him. They both paused around the corner of the next house, looking down the alley to wait for Larissa and Christopher to pass them at the other end.

"It just is," shaggy Dean offered eventually. "Let's just hope those other two us-es are doing their job as well as they say they can."

.

* * *

.

Shaggy Sam kept his hand on the butt of the handgun in the inside pocket of his FBI suit jacket. "Are we seriously going to shoot this Urobach in the street in broad daylight?" he asked his brother quietly.

"Don't see a choice," short-haired Dean replied. "We're still in FBI duds, right? We could flash some badges and get people to call the cops for us - make it look official while we make a run for it."

"Hmm," Sam allowed, watching the street avidly. "They're nearly out of sight. We need to move."

They appeared from the front lawn, keeping guns stowed but their hands never straying far from them. They walked cautiously down the pavement, watching the few passers-by.

"You know what I don't get?" shaggy Sam asked presently.

"Paid holidays?"

"Dean," he tutted. "I don't get why Urobach is so pissed with Larissa. I mean, sure, she's kinda granting wishes and not reaping souls for Hell, but is that it?"

"You mean… is there another reason Urobach wants her intestines on a plate? Who knows, man, they're demons."

"So… after this is done, are we ganking her?"

Dean hissed uncomfortably, shaking his head as they walked on, keeping the half-demon and her companion at the far reaches of their sight. "That is something we'll deal with later," he allowed.

"You don't want to?"

"She's half demon, Sam. We should kill her."

"But?"

"But… Something makes me want to leave her alone."

Sam stopped dead, catching the crook of his brother's elbow to bring him to a stop too. "Seriously?"

"Stop looking at me like that," Dean tutted, pulling his arm free. "Yeah. Plus, we gank her and Christopher and their Sam die."

"There is that," Sam conceded. "Still feels like an excuse though."

"Don't it," short-haired Dean muttered. "I don't know, she just doesn't strike me as one of the evil ones. And… Nah, forget it," he said quickly, turning away.

"What?" Sam demanded, catching him up as they walked. "What?"

"Nothing, Sam. Come on."

"Dean - tell me. What?"

"It's just… she was right. You and her do have something in common - this whole demon blood thing. And her being kind of on our side, even though she really is half demon? Means maybe… well maybe if something does happen to you, you'll still be on our side. Right? Right?" he urged hopefully.

Sam stared at him for a long moment before stopping him again. "You think something will turn me Dark Side after all?"

"No - that's not what I said," Dean snapped, pointing at him. "I said _if_ something happens to you - and that's a big-ass 'if' while I'm here and able to do something about it - then maybe you don't have to go all the way Dark Side. Just kinda… double agent it, still working for Team Winchester."

Sam smiled slightly. "And I thought I was supposed to be the optimist," he teased.

"Bite me," Dean grumbled, turning away again. "Aw, crap."

"What?"

"Lost 'em."

They looked around the street, unable to see either Larissa's taller head or Christopher's brown hair among the few people going places around them.

"End of the street. Now," Sam advised. They hurried on.

.

* * *

.

Shaggy Dean knocked his brother's elbow. "Urobach, two o'clock," he grunted.

Short-haired Sam turned and looked, already slowing and fingering the handle of the gun in his jacket pocket. They stood and watched from behind the wooden fence as the head they recognised began to close on Larissa and Christopher in the open street.

Dean pulled the long-barrelled Colt out from under his jacket, raising it slowly and cocking it. Sam put his hand up. Dean paused.

Urobach appeared to be speaking quite genially to the pair in the street, his arms out in surrender. Larissa's face was guarded, confident, but Christopher looked as though he were about to panic. Short-haired Sam closed on the fence in front of him, watching carefully.

Suddenly Urobach turned and stared directly at short-haired Sam. Sam cursed and his raised hand pointed over the fence instead. Dean already had a bead on the demon's head. He closed his left eye and began to squeeze at the trigger.

Sam's hand moved into his line of vision, then out again. "Wait," he commanded. Dean didn't move, waiting for fresh information.

Urobach stepped back, sliding round behind Larissa and putting his arms round the two of them. He began to walk, smiling at Sam the whole time.

"I got a head shot," Dean urged.

"No."

"I got a head shot!"

"No! You might hit one of the others. He'll move."

"Dude! I could hit a yo-yo on acid - let me--"

Sam's hand clamped round the barrel of the gun, sending it slightly upwards. Dean fumed but let his finger off the trigger. He yanked it back, easing it off cock and staring daggers at his brother.

"I had him," he growled.

"You had nothing. He would have moved and pulled Larissa into shot," Sam snapped dismissively, "and then he would have killed Christopher."

"Goddamn it, Sam!"

Sam turned and grabbed at scruffy Dean's shirt, holding him still. "Listen to me. We follow him. He'll want to go somewhere less crowded. We'll get in there and then, believe me, I want you to blow his head off."

He let him go with a push, doing absolutely nothing for Dean's roiling temper. The elder, scruffier Winchester stowed the Colt but said nothing, his chin jutting out in a show of seething indignation that Sam realised he had not seen on his older brother in years.

They looked at each other in silence, and suddenly Sam realised his brother wasn't angry at _him_. It seemed as though he were wondering how deep the drop went after the edge to the cliff of disagreement and if he could make it to the other side.

"Fine," Dean managed eventually. "Let's go. But I'm telling you - whatever goes down next, I fuckin' _had_ him, Sam."

He turned and stalked off. Sam heard his brother's iPhone playing his favourite Metallica song as ringtone and watched him remove it from his jeans pocket and slap it to his ear in disgust.

"Yeah, Old Man, we saw him. I nearly had his head off. Had a clear shot and everything. Tell me about it! Whatever. He's moving off, Sam thinks we should follow cos he's gonna be aiming for a quiet spot. Right. Corner, turn left. You and me both, man." He tapped the call closed with his thumb and looked at Sam accusingly. "Their Dean is wondering why I didn't take the shot."

"Well when you've killed Urobach and saved the other two, I'll have time to explain," Sam retorted. He pushed past his brother and went on down the street. Dean rolled it round his head before following with a heavy tread.

.

* * *

.

Short-haired Dean snapped the phone shut and huffed through nostrils that were widening proportionally to their owner's anger and disapproval.

"What?" Sam asked quickly.

"X-5 says he had him. Something tells me that dick that looks like you stopped him from shooting Urobach dead right there and then."

"There must have been a reason why he stopped him," shaggy Sam hazarded. Dean looked at him and he floundered. "Uh, I just can't think of one right now."

"Well thanks to him we now have a hostage situation - Urobach knows we're onto him and he's with Larissa and Christopher."

"At least we know Richard's safe," Sam said weakly.

Dean spared him a glance before turning and heading off down the street. "He said left at the corner," he called over his shoulder. "Keep your eyes peeled for a place he could stash people."

Sam hurried to keep up.

.

* * *

.

Short-haired Sam stopped by the brick wall to the building, jumping up on the dumpster and appraising the dirty window in front of him. As his scruffy brother leapt up beside him with unexpected agility, Sam lifted the two-foot window and looked in. He spotted a dusty, disused storage basement that could have come from any one of a hundred spy movies. Crates were dotted about, machinery and rags discarded in odd arrangements. Sam turned his head and nodded to his elder brother. He gestured to the Colt still in his hand before looking back through the window.

He saw Larissa and Christopher, both of them facing his tiny window from thirty feet away. Between the two of them and Sam was Urobach, putting his hands on a packing crate and springing up to sit on it quite comfortably. The back of his head was in plain sight and Dean nudged his younger brother aside. Sam gave way, and the scruffy Winchester raised the Colt, drawing a bead on the back of the demon's head.

"Can you get him?" Sam breathed.

"What do you want, melon-shattering head shot or one to the heart?" shaggy Dean breathed back.

"Surprise me," Sam grinned.

Dean let himself smile before he closed his left eye. He adjusted his aim slightly. His finger began to squeeze the trigger.

The Colt flew up and tumbled through the window. It clattered to the ground.

Dean stared at his empty hand for a moment. Then he threw himself through the open window after the stolen weapon.

Sam scrambled after him, but by the time they were finding their feet from the drop, Urobach was lifting the Colt, inspecting it carefully.

"So this is the little peashooter that's been causing everyone to worry so," he sighed. He looked up the Winchesters. "Amateurs," he spat. "Ever heard of shadows?"

They looked down at the floor, realising the long black streaks they were still causing on the dusty ground.

"You know, I kind of expected more from you. You are supposed to be Winchesters," he tutted. He looked back at the gun, then turned and looked at Larissa. "Let's see if this thing really works on demons, shall we?"

He lifted the gun. A shot rang out. Larissa jumped.

Urobach gasped and hacked, dropping the gun in pain. Larissa patted her front. She found herself unhurt.

"Christopher! Grab the gun!" shouted a gruff voice from the opposite side of the warehouse.

"You - you bastard!" Urobach coughed. Three more holy water bullets slammed into him and he dropped to his knees, coughing and writhing in agony. Christopher snatched up the fallen weapon and hurried out of range. Urobach fell forwards to his hands as two FBI suited Winchesters appeared from the dark corner of the warehouse.

"Shadowless and _up_wind," short-haired Dean pointed out maliciously. "Thanks, fellas," he added sarcastically, not even looking at the other pair of Winchesters. "Just the diversion we needed."

Shaggy Sam sidled up to Christopher, taking the charmed Colt from him carefully. "You two ok?" he asked quickly.

Larissa put her hands up in surrender. "I will be after you shoot him," she rattled off. "Do it!"

Shaggy Sam turned on Urobach.

"Stop playing around, little boy," he managed, lifting a hand. Short-haired Dean fired at close range, another bullet of holy water whamming into his chest. "_Aaarrgh!_" he raged. "Stop that!"

"Sam!" FBI Dean prompted.

Sam lifted the Colt, aiming at Urobach. The demon raised his hand again hastily and flicked it. Sam smiled a malicious show of evil intent.

"Didn't your minions tell you?" he sneered. "It doesn't work on me."

He fired.

.

.

* * *

_**Thanks for all your reviews and comments! You know I love them more than vodka. Well, kinda... :)**_


	13. I Told You So

**THIRTEEN**

**I Told You So**

.

Sam fired.

The bullet flew faster than the eyes of the impatient audience could follow.

But not too fast for Urobach.

Black smoke shot up to the ceiling as the bullet hit home - straight into the heart of the human host. The empty corpse was already sliding down to the floor as the black smoke twisted and billowed, zipping downwards.

Shaggy Sam hurled himself at Christopher. They landed on the floor, Sam covering as much of him as possible with his own body. Dean was shouting something as Larissa screamed.

Suddenly all the noise stopped. Shaggy Sam looked up quickly. "Dean!" he called.

"Get the gun!" came the answering shout.

Black smoke felt up and down Sam's back and he stayed still, keeping himself between Urobach and Christopher underneath him. The next thing he he heard was an unfamiliar laugh.

"Oh dear," said Urobach. "I really had no idea you two - oh, excuse me, you _four_ were such brainless douches!"

Sam looked up from Christopher's head. He saw Dean similarly protecting Larissa. Stood a few feet behind him was Urobach, back in his human host, the front already ceasing to bleed. He bent down and picked up the fallen Colt, straightening again.

"So you two have tatts I can't cross - big deal," he said, waving a hand. FBI Dean was propelled off Larissa, rolling to a stop near shaggy Sam and Christopher. "And you two have charms _everywhere_," he added, turning to look back at the other two Winchesters. They were already scrambling to their feet. "But you fail to realise just who you're dealing with."

"With whom you're dealing," shaggy Sam corrected snidely.

"Shut it, maggot," Urobach snapped. He bent and grabbed at Larissa's arm, yanking her to her feet. "And now, foreign love-child of my most unappreciative whore of an ex-lover, I will finally wipe your pathetic half-demon stain from the map." Urobach stepped back, pulling Larissa with him. "You didn't know that, did you?" he snarled into her ear.

She staggered along with him, held up by his strong grip. "That my mother ran off and screwed a human because you couldn't get it up? Of course I knew!" she spat.

Urobach growled something and his vice-like grip moved to her neck. He squeezed from behind and she whimpered, closing her eyes in pain.

"You watch your mouth, half-breed," he seethed.

FBI Dean got to his feet slowly, dusting off his suit. "You know, Sammy was right," he nodded, looking sideways at his brother. He, too, was slowly climbing to his feet. "He said there was another reason you wanted her dead."

"Did he? That's interesting. Cram it up your ass," Urobach snapped.

"I'd rather do this," came shaggy Dean's voice. Urobach turned quickly, pulling Larissa with him, just as Dean fired.

Bullets filled with holy water went straight into Larissa. She squirmed and cried out, dropping unexpectedly. The next two shots went into Urobach.

"Enough - with the - holy water!" he raged, even as his hand dropped the Colt in pain. He staggered, trying to keep his footing.

Winchesters were everywhere. One snatched up the Colt. One grabbed Christopher clear. One reached for Larissa.

Urobach heard the clip run dry and grinned. His hand went out and he grabbed the first human he felt. The black suit was shoved in front of him as he righted himself, using the human to counterbalance his weight.

"Now then," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "The next bastard who tries the holy water or salt bullets trick gets to watch me _twist his head off_."

Shaggy Sam, his shoulder gripped tightly by Urobach, swallowed and looked back at the other three Winchesters.

"You son of a b--" short-haired Dean began.

"Ah-ah-ah!" the demon interrupted. "I might just snap his neck for that little remark alone! And since Larissa here has already granted wishes for you and Christopher, and can't deal with those two, poor Sammy here would be shit out of luck as far as being brought back to life goes."

FBI Dean stood his ground, his gun in his hand. His eyes blazed with green vengeful fire, but he had nothing to say.

"That's better. Now then," Urobach began.

"Wait," shaggy Dean barked. All eyes turned on him. And the Colt in his hand.

"Oh here we go again," Urobach sighed. "Put that down, little boy, you're going to hurt yourself."

"Step clear of his Sam," he said clearly, "or I'll kill you right there."

Urobach snorted. "You're not that good."

"Want to bet?" shaggy Dean ground out.

The demon considered him and his aura of absolute confidence.

"You sure about this, X-5?" short-haired Dean breathed.

"Oohh, I think so," he allowed with a faintness that still belied his complete and utter belief. His head tilted just slightly as his eyes ran up and down the demon's face, currently over Sam's shoulder.

"You would never hit me before I put Sam in the way."

"You're probably right. But that ain't _my_ Sam," shaggy Dean said, deliberately clearly. "Besides, sometimes you have to take one for the team. He should know that."

"_X-5_," Dean growled in warning.

Shaggy Dean did not even blink. "I got this," he said calmly.

"_Dean_," short-haired Dean warned.

"Old Man, shut the fuck up," he stated with a clarity accompanied by irritation at the interruption. "All day, every day, people tell me what I can and cannot do. I've been putting up with it for years for one reason, and one reason only. But you can all kiss my ass, cos today, right now, right here - _I got this and he knows it_."

Urobach saw the slight tightening of the eyes, the tension in shaggy Dean's arm on the gun. He gasped. He began to shove Sam in front of him. Shaggy Dean's head tilted in annoyance.

He fired.

The bullet escaped the Colt with purpose. It hammered home.

Straight into Sam.

"_Saaaaaum!_" FBI Dean shouted.

The bullet did not stop. It tore through the Winchester and slammed into Urobach's host with relish.

There it stopped. Urobach jerked and cursed, his hands letting go of the human.

Both men dropped to the floor.

FBI Dean pushed everyone and everything out of the way. He ignored the jerking, convulsing demon sputtering his last breath and grabbed the suit on his brother.

"Sam! Sammy!" he demanded angrily, hauling him to sit up.

"Dean," he rasped, reaching for him blindly.

"Don't move, let me see," he ordered, pulling the jacket open. He wrenched it off his shoulder and away, finding a large red stain quickly spreading down the right arm of his white shirt. "Aw Hell," Dean breathed in relief. "It's just an arm shot. You'll be fine."

"Oh don't be such a girl," shaggy Dean put in from behind them. "I _can_ aim."

Shaggy Sam jumped slightly as FBI Dean's head snapped up. His face, red with anger and blame, whipped away from the fallen Winchester. Sam tried to grab at his sleeve but his brother was gone.

"You!" FBI Dean raged, grabbing the man who looked like him. "You _brainless_ bastard! You coulda _killed him_!"

"Get off me!" shaggy Dean shouted back into his face. "I'm a better shot than you'll ever--"

A black sleeve shot up and a fist pounded into shaggy Dean's bearded chin. He staggered, regrouping. He let fly with a closed fist. FBI Dean ducked backwards. The fist missed him by an inch. His hands flew up and pushed the offending fist further on round. His elbow slammed into the bearded head. Shaggy Dean turned with the blow. The back of his fist came round and caught FBI Dean in the head. There was a growl and curse before shaggy Dean grasped the front of the FBI suit and held him still. His wrenched on his grip. He hammered his head forward. Their heads crashed together, sending them both reeling to the carpet.

Christopher edged closer to shaggy-haired Sam, kneeling and checking the blood seeping from his arm. "Move," he advised, helping him to his feet. "I'm not getting between those two."

"Dean!" short-haired Sam commanded. "Stop it!"

The two Deans would not listen. Fists flew, elbows hammered, heads clashed. They fell but just as quickly, FBI Dean was on his feet. "You shouldn't have taken that chance!" he accused, leaning down and grabbing the jacket on the other Dean. "You don't screw with _my brother_!"

Shaggy Dean was hoisted to his feet. He swung for the other man again but FBI Dean avoided it. He blocked the follow-up punch and slammed his fist into the bearded face so much like his own.

"You would have done the same if it'd been _my_ brother," shaggy Dean spluttered. He felt his chin and wiped blood from the bristles over it. "You hypocrite!" Bearded Dean whipped around, catching FBI Dean a tremendous smack to the nose. He staggered but slapped his hands to the lapels on bearded Dean's open jacket.

"That's what - you think!" FBI Dean hurled. He let go with one fist and slammed it into the face.

Shaggy Dean spluttered blood and curses, grabbing the fist still hanging onto his jacket. "You have no idea - how patient I've been - or why," shaggy Dean breathed. "Just cos you look like me don't mean you know _anything about me_!"

He hurled himself at the FBI suit. They collided in a ball of fury and frustration, punching and elbowing, grappling and spitting insults.

Larissa stepped forward, raising a hand. "Really, boys," she snapped. A flick of her hand sent the two Deans flying to opposite walls, pounding into packing crates in their way and falling to the floor. There they sat, pinned in place, breathing desperately and staring at each other with dark intent. "This is all very exciting, but really - we've moved on!"

She cast glances at the two Sams, one watching her with worry, the other with clear intent.

"Relax, Sam - and Sam. As soon as they've decided that having killed Urobach is more important than killing each other, I'll let them up." She looked back at bearded Dean. "You, young man, can stop projecting your sibling rage on the only person who could understand you and your inferiority complex." She ignored shaggy Dean's Kryptonite glare, instead turning to look at the Dean in the FBI suit. "And you," she snapped, "just because you spent forty years in Hell does not mean you know every kind of pain someone can inflict. Stop acting like John - the other you does not need a father, he needs a Sam like you've got."

The two Deans pinned her with an identical glower, making her smile slightly.

"You done?" FBI Dean growled. "Can I do you now? How about: just because you're half a demon and you got mommy issues does not mean we have to listen to a damn thing you say. We _kill_ demons for a living, and the only reason you're still here, _sweetheart_, is because we don't want Christopher - and Sam - to go down like that."

"You make damn sure you keep 'em alive and tickin' when you send us home," bearded Dean interrupted. "Cos I sure as shit would not think twice about ganking you just for kicks."

"Hey - Mr Buttinski, stow it," FBI Dean ordered him sharply. He ignored the baleful look and instead looked at the half-demon. "You let us up. You let us get rid of what's left of Urobach. You send these two assholes home. Then we let you walk off into the sunset. Agreed?"

She looked at shaggy-haired Sam. "You think he can stop pounding on his twin long enough to get this done?" she asked critically.

Sam lifted his left hand from the arm wound, hissing in pain before squeezing it again. "Yeah," he said clearly. "He can." He turned to look at FBI Dean. "Can't you?"

"Aw bite me," he grumbled, his head falling to one side in resigned discomfort.

"That's a yes," shaggy Sam added to Larissa. She nodded.

"Very well. As much as I enjoy seeing the two of them grudge-match it out, we do have other things to do." She let her hand drop and the two Deans raised their own limbs, looking at them before scrambling to their feet.

Bearded Dean turned back to look at his Sam, finding himself the recipient of one of Sam's most pointed stares. He shrugged, his hands out in righteous indignation, and short-haired Sam just shook his head.

Christopher leaned to lift shaggy Sam's hand from his bloodied shirt, looking at it. "You really need a hospital," he advised.

"I know," shaggy Sam sighed. "But I'll live."

He noticed shaggy Dean's boots stop next to him. He looked up to find the bearded copy of his brother putting his hand out.

"Hey, no hard feelings, man," he offered quietly. "It got the job done."

Sam stared up at him, and for a moment - the briefest of moments - realised a hard and unsettling truth. He put his free hand up and the scruffy version of his brother pulled him to his feet. Shaggy Sam hissed with pain as he stood taller again.

"No hard feelings," he repeated, nodding slightly. "I get it. Believe me, I get it."

Shaggy Dean just looked at him for a second. Then he turned away, casting a look over his shoulder at FBI Dean. "This demon thing is settled. We're not. Stay away from me," he asserted, turning away again.

"Ho, bring it on, X-5," FBI Dean shot back, but caught Sam's worried eye. He huffed and let his head sway left and right in frustration as his eyes rolled in a patent manoeuvre of being hard done-by. He looked back at his brother. "Let's get that arm seen to. And this corpse removed," he added, finally looking at the dead man who had until recently held Urobach.

.

* * *

.

Christopher looked around his own lounge in thoughtful silence, mindful of the five strangers standing and sitting in awkward ignorance of each other.

Larissa walked over to where shaggy Sam was sitting, falling to the sofa next to him. "How's the arm?" she asked warmly.

"It's fine," he allowed with a polite revealing of teeth. "It wasn't actually that bad."

"I _told_ you I could aim," shaggy Dean put in with the beginnings of ire, but it cooled as he noticed the sandy-coloured head of his neat double raise and turn his way. "Anyway, you're ok, right?"

"Yes. I'm fine," shaggy Sam allowed. "Wouldn't say no to some real sleep, though."

"You and me both," Christopher said. "I'll just go make a phonecall. Richard's kind of waiting for news."

"Richard! Holy crap - go call him," short-haired Dean managed. "The poor guy must be tearing his hair out by now."

Christopher nodded gratefully, leaving the room with haste. Larissa stood slowly, looking around.

"Pretty harsh, boys," she said, smiling at shaggy Dean and his short-haired brother. "But I like your style."

"You sure?" short-haired Sam replied with an innocent smile. "What was all that about your mom and Urobach?"

"Oh, _pfff_, water under the bridge," she said dismissively, waving a hand at him. "The important thing is, he's dead and won't be undoing Christopher's or your own wishes granted."

"Yeah, how about that," shaggy Dean said happily, clapping his brother on the shoulder.

"So I guess this is goodbye," she said sadly. "Time we all went home."

"Ooooh yeah," short-haired Dean agreed, relieved. He wiped his hands over his face, scrubbing at it wearily. "Man, I could sleep for a week--"

"What are you doing?" came Larissa's voice.

Short-haired Sam looked at his double. "Be seeing you," he said firmly.

Shaggy Sam blinked at him in confusion.

Then short-haired Sam raised the Colt.

.

.


	14. Take From Me What I Take From You

**FOURTEEN**

_Take From Me What I Take From You_

_You Can Take From Me What I Find In You_

.

.

Short-haired Sam cocked the charmed Colt. He aimed.

Shaggy Sam stood quickly. His brother began to move.

But short-haired Sam's aim darted quickly to one side.

He fired.

Larissa felt the thunk as the silver bullet drove straight through her and into the wall. She dropped instantly, the light fading from her eyes.

Short-haired Sam stood over her, looking down.

"I _told_ you killing her wouldn't reset any wishes she'd granted - cos they ain't contracts," shaggy Dean nodded vindictively. "All it's gonna do is wipe out her freebies - so we should be home in just a second."

"I knew you were right," short-haired Sam said simply. "You're always right."

The two displaced Winchesters grinned at each other for a long second.

"Does this mean I get to drive the car now?" shaggy Dean asked knowingly.

"Don't push it," short-haired Sam allowed, but there was amusement in his tone.

"What the hell?" short-haired Dean demanded, staring at the dead girl on the carpet. "She was gonna send you home anyway! She was on _our_ side!"

Shaggy Dean turned to him. "No, Old Man. She was half demon. There can't be any grey in this job, only black and white."

"You back-stabbing son of a bitch," short-haired Dean marvelled.

"Dean," shaggy Sam blurted. His brother turned to look at him. "He's right, man. They're both right."

"What?" short-haired Dean demanded.

"And that's why you won't stop the race to halt this apocalypse you got going on in your universe," short-haired Sam said firmly. "Because you're not asshole enough to do what needs to be done."

"Journal," shaggy Dean said wisely, before pinning his copy with a look. "Journal."

"What does that--" short-haired Dean began.

But the other two Winchesters blinked out of sight, as if they had never been.

The FBI-suited Winchesters jumped, spooked. It was quiet for a long moment until short-haired Dean's surprise picked up a chair and smashed the plate glass silence.

"Are they gone?" he gasped.

"I guess… they're home?" shaggy Sam wondered.

Christopher ran into the room, stopping dead as he saw the state of his front room.

"What the hell?" he demanded.

"We'll take care of it," short-haired Dean allowed.

"You're damn straight you will! All of you - whoever's left - get the hell out of my house!" he cried, terrified. "If I ever see you again, Richard will _lock you up for insanity!_"

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* * *

.

Dean wiped a hand over his forehead, his other firmly gripping the steering wheel. He huffed for the fourth time, his hand dropping to rub his lip with enough annoyance to keep Sam from his snooze in the passenger seat.

"What is it, man?" he muttered, half asleep.

"Where do I start?" Dean growled.

"Find a place. I'm not listening to you huff all afternoon and then pace around while I'm trying to sleep tonight," Sam warned, his voice quiet with lethargy.

Dean checked his mirrors, found the road empty and steered the Impala to the gravel off the side of the road. The sun beat down as he flung the driver's door open and stormed out of the car.

Sam looked up, shaking off any hope he had of sleep as he slid over the seats. He turned, throwing his long legs out of the open driver's door, leaning his left arm on the back of the seat and letting the hand attached to his wounded arm flail in his lap.

"This whole gig has been screwed from the start!" Dean accused, throwing his hands up in the air. While his FBI suit had finally been shucked in favour of real clothes, the warm air had persuaded the elder Winchester to rely on a single t-shirt for a change. "Copy us-es, demons that ain't all demons, and then those two stabbing people in the friggin' back!"

"Well… not really," Sam allowed. He weathered Dean's warning look with alarming calm. "Look, I get why they did it."

"He _shot_ you! The little douchebag _shot_ you, for cryin' out loud!" he raged.

"Yeah, he did. Because he knew it wouldn't permanently injure me, and it would kill the demon. And look," he said, lifting his arm in the fresh white bandage clearly visible poking out from underneath the sleeve of his t-shirt, "I'll live. So yeah, he was right."

"He was _right_?" Dean exploded. "You sure I got stuck with the _real_ Sam? What if he'd found you actually got demon blood in there somewhere along the line? You think he would have thought twice about ganking _you_?"

Sam simply sighed, leaning on the back of the seat. Dean noticed his torpor and put his hands up, shaking his head and turning to the magnificent scenery behind him. His hands stole onto the hips of his jeans as he cursed and muttered away to himself, keeping his back to his worrying younger brother.

Sam watched him, his eyebrows performing a revolutionary and potentially Olympic-medal-winning somersault and flip that spoke volumes. He rubbed at an eye, waiting for his brother to calm down.

"What freaks you out more?" he dared. "That he was like you? Or that he wasn't? At least your Xerox was pretty much… ok. Mine was a nightmare."

Dean continued to stare at the scenery for a long minute, and Sam resigned himself to the fact that he wasn't going to get an answer. The elder Winchester bent to the gravel beneath his heavy boots and picked up a lump of rock. He leaned back to pitch it, best baseball style, as far as he could into the trees lining the drop from the side of the road.

The stone flew far and fast, disappearing into the foliage without protest. Dean put his hands on his knees, bending and just thinking for what seemed like an eternity. Eventually he turned back to the car and put a hand on the roof, looking at his brother.

"Just… it was cold, man," he complained, his face twisted in a lack of comprehension. "Just… friggin' _cold_… Right?"

"They way they saw it, it was black or white. They chose white."

"You mean black?"

Sam snorted ruefully, shaking his head. "Who knows."

"He took a helluva risk - killing Larissa could have killed his Sam," Dean pointed out.

"He seemed sure of himself."

"Arrogant little fuc--"

"_Self-confident asshole_. You've been talking to that other Dean too much," Sam interrupted with a smile.

Dean refused to look at him. "He was just lucky shooting her actually sent them home after all," he observed. "If they'd been stuck here it would not have been pretty."

"I got that," Sam allowed with another smile. Dean looked at him and Sam straightened his face like lightning. "Anyway, we don't even know that they _did_ get home. For their sins."

"Yeah," Dean snorted. He thought for a moment, then turned and looked at his brother, putting his hand out. "Journal."

Sam turned and leaned back, opening the glovebox. He rummaged around and pulled out the leather-bound book, handing it over. "You want to see what he meant?" he hazarded.

"X-5 said it twice. It must mean something," he breathed dangerously. He flicked through pages before he stopped abruptly. He flipped the entire book forward, finding the last page on a hunch. He blinked. "Well lookie what we have here," he said sarcastically. He turned the book round and held it up for his brother to see.

What Sam found was handwriting that looked suspiciously like his brother's spidery scrawl. But judging by Dean's face, he hadn't written it.

Dean pulled the book round again and cleared his throat.

"_Hey Old Man_," he read, deliberately clearly, "_if this goes how I think, I won't be here to explain. First of all, thanks for not being a dick. You have no idea what it's been like living with my brother since my deal_."

He looked up at Sam, and both brothers realised their anger was stealthily being replaced by confusion and creeping trepidation. Dean looked down at his father's journal again.

"_Second, I don't really know you but you seem like a stand-up guy. So I want you to know the only reason I've been taking a back seat in all this since that dumbass deal was so me and my gung-ho brother didn't split straight apart. There's only room for one Maverick, so just make sure it stays you and you don't lose your Goose over this one. If you're anything like me - and I know you are where brothers are concerned - you'll go to pieces if anything happens to him. Keep him in line and for God's sake, don't argue. The moment you two start distrusting each other is the moment you've lost the apocalypse to the other side, you get me?_"

Dean paused, swallowing and tossing a knowing glance at Sam. Sam nodded encouragingly and Dean looked back at the book.

"_Third, I know you're thinking my Sam is a dick, and some days you'd be right. But he always gets the job done, and that's all that matters. We've done shit no-one should have to do, and it's caused us all kinds of pain - but it's saved people cos we've hunted things, and we've apparently stopped any apocalypse countdown in our universe. I'm not placing blame, but hey, somewhere along the line you two fucked this whole thing up and it's going to cost the Earth. Just remember that sometimes, it takes an asshole to do what's needed. People in our line of work can't afford to have a heart. That's how demons win, and being that asshole who only sees in black and white is how we've stayed on top of them_."

Sam took a deep breath and Dean ran a thoughtful tongue over his lower lip. He kept his eyes on the book.

"_Meeting you put a lot of things in perspective for me. Patience is one thing, but I_'_m done with the David Carradine wisdom and timing thing and it's going to be my time now. Just be glad your Sam has a heart, even though it's going to fuck everything up. Do not let anything come between you two. It's what the other side wants. Shoot now, ask questions when you're free of the apocalypse. Good luck, man. Hope you win it. Something tells me you'll manage it, but the price will be too high and you'll wish you'd done it sooner_._ ~Your smarter, upgraded, X5-494 Dean '_Smart Alec' _Winchester._"

He let the book drop slightly in his hands, not looking at Sam. The younger Winchester leaned on the seat, thinking. The birds sang, the breeze rearranged Sam's hair, time passed.

Presently Sam lifted his head and looked at his brother. "You think… he's got something there?" he ventured quietly.

"I think…" Dean snapped the book shut, handing it back to him. Sam just held it, watching him. "I think he's got something there. And I think we both need sleep. Man, it will just be a relief to get back to the one of me. And you. I'm going to have nightmares about mirrors for a week."

Sam snorted with more than a little amusement, scooting over the seats back to the passenger side. He put the journal back in the glovebox, closing it up and getting comfortable on the seat. Dean slid into the driver's side and squeaked the door closed, starting the engine again. He leaned back in the seat before pausing to look at his brother.

Sam noticed and looked back at him. "What?"

"What tape do you want?" Dean asked innocently.

"You're asking _me_ what tape I want?"

"I think that's what I said, ass-hat."

"Why?"

"Cos apparently, you're Goose and I'm Maverick, and we're supposed to work together on this apocalypse thing."

"Oh, so five minutes ago he was an arrogant fuc--"

"_Self-confident asshole_, remember?" Dean grinned.

"That too. Five minutes ago you wanted to punt him off a cliff, and now you're taking his little note to heart?" Sam teased.

"That's the trouble," Dean allowed with a weary sigh, "He called it as he saw it. Whether I liked him or not… He always said what he thought."

Sam studied his brother's face for a long moment. _So he freaked you out because he wasn't like you,_ he heard himself think. _At least, he passed comment on everything. You just do it when it's not going to start us fighting again._ He pursed his lips, looking at the dashboard uncomfortably.

Dean risked a glance at him, then flung a hand out and slapped the back of it to his brother's knee. "So come on, what tape do you want? I'm in a sharing mood," he announced with deliberate cheer.

Sam grinned, leaning forward and rifling through. "AC/DC," he stated, holding the cassette out to his brother.

Dean grinned in retaliation. "Sweet. Hey, I let you pick the tape, so you have to let me sing."

Sam's eyes turned to each other and drew in deep breaths. They screamed with the utmost horror, their arms going up in the air. They tore off to their left, running and yelling, abject heebie-jeebies scaring the life out of the rest of his head and subconscious as they tore round the eye sockets. They pounded round as fast as they could, still trying to scream through their shortness of breath, before collapsing exactly where they had started, fitting and wailing in agony.

Dean ignored his brother's eye-roll. Instead, he chuckled wickedly and pulled out onto the tarmaced road as the familiar strains of _Highway To Hell_ began to blare.

The Impala rumbled on, to the husky sounds of singing from a single Dean Winchester, and the rather relieved chuckles of a solitary Sam Winchester.

**FIN**

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* * *

.

_**And as our Sam and Dean drive off into a sunny afternoon, I can't help feeling I'm already going to miss Alt Sam and Dean. I never once got them mixed up with the show Sam and Dean in my head - it's almost like they were all my own, even though they started out as twisted copies of Mr Kripke's creations. Ah well. All good things, and all that…**_

_**But you seriously thought I would leave you without a Sam eye-roll? Dude!**_

_**Thank you for ALL your reviews, comments, messages and support. I've been overwhelmed by the response to this storyline and part of the reason I've had the best holiday season in years is due to that. THANK YOU!**_

_Chapter title comes from the song 'I Wish' by Wet Wet Wet._


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